Absolution
by portmanelena
Summary: "Shocking isn't it" smiled the old man "Who'd want to hurt you?" When four murders draw Sherlock and John into a bitter game of revenge, their determination to solve the puzzle reveals a plot so dangerous it threatens the very foundation of their lives. But when all is said and done, how does one cope with the knowledge that their world will never be the same again?
1. The Old Cabin

The winter night was crystal clear and cold, smothered only by a deep silence which hung in the air. There was no breeze, no flutter of leaves, no distant rumble of vehicles or voices. The stillness was unnatural, sending a shiver down the boys spine as he trod the winding path through the woods.

The towering trees above formed an impregnable wall so dense not even a sliver of moonlight penetrated the suffocating darkness. The boy held his phone before him, hunched over, futilely attempting to saturate the damp path with its light which seemed an unnatural and unwelcome intruder to the night.

The back of his neck prickled and he whipped his head around, certain he would see the shadow of a figure behind him, perhaps drifting out of the darkness, but there was nothing. Suddenly the path turned and a small hut emerged, old and wooden with a thin column of smoke rising drifting above it.

A flicker of fire light jumped behind the cracked, dusty windows and the boy took a deep breath, reaching out to push open the warped door.

It screamed on its hinges, the noise amplified a hundred times as it echoed around and around in the deep tunnel of trees.

"For gods sake!" snarled a voice and a hand grabbed the boys arm roughly, heaving him inside where he stumbled back upon one of the old mismatched armchairs by the fire. He sank into it, heart pounding as the figure pulled the door shut, peering out the murky window to the darkness beyond.

"You're late" he snarled limping back towards the fire and sinking into a seat opposite the boy. "He told me 10.30"

"I got lost" the boy retorted sharply "you couldn't have found somewhere slightly closer to...well anywhere really?"

The man smirked and leaned forward in his chair so his face was revealed by the flickering fire light. He was old, his skin puckered and weather beaten as if he had never spent a day inside. Scraggly ashen hair fell to his bony shoulders but the bare top of his head shone like a polished jewel. An elongated ropey scar danced down his features to the edges of his thin grey lips, pulling the corner of his mouth into a hideous grimace. His skin was translucent and grey, everything about him appeared feeble and weak, his gnarled hands clasped on his lap, his thin shoulders hunched down in the chair, everything except his eyes, gleaming, ocean deep cerulean. There was life in those eyes, they spoke of strength and determination, convincing the boy this man was capable of anything. Something stirred in those deep pools, something hard, a cruelty, a desperation which unsettled the boy to his core.

"So you're the one he's sent" the man asked, amusement shimmering in his eyes, "I suppose you're looking for the answers" The boy picked nervously at the aged cloth on his chair, it was floral, ugly, from another time "I think I'm entitled to them" he retorted, not risking lifting his eyes, fearful of being ensnared in the man's powerful glare.

The old man snorted, "You listen here boy and you listen well" he spat "You leave this cabin tonight and there's no turning back, once the wheels are set in motion you don't_ ever_ get off." He paused as if that particular thought gave him great pleasure "It starts with something small, isolated, seemingly unimportant, and then it grows, slowly, invisibly, like a cancer, until it's too late."

He leant forward even further and the boy unwillingly lifted his eyes to the commanding and almost manic gaze "Our world is about to change" he said in a slow and quiet whisper leaving no room for argument "and it's already begun" he lent back in his chair, gazing into the fire so the flames danced in his eyes, "It's already begun" he repeated quietly as if he had already forgotten the boys presence. There was an intensity in his gaze, a hunger as if he had waited his entire life for what would follow.


	2. Deadly Beginnings

The body lay twisted and distorted on the cold tiles, the victims long, dark hair floating in the thick, congealing pool surrounding her. Her wide brown eyes were blank, her alabaster features still and yet John couldn't help but notice her deep set, dark eyes seemed frozen with the last thought and emotion she had: fear. John pursed his lips; despite his experience, and the ever climbing body count present in his life since meeting Sherlock, one never truly became desensitized to death.

He glanced over at Sherlock who was surveying the scene with a sharp intensity, his bright eyes flickering from wall to floor to body and John could only imagine the stream of brilliance taking place in his mind. "How's it going" asked Lestrade stepping back into the room, gingerly avoiding the blood which dripped sickeningly over the threshold of the door and down the stairs. "Fourth suicide in the area this week" he said glancing down at the body "maybe a suicide pact, the lab just rang, no drugs or alcohol in her system."

"Obviously" Sherlock was crouched by the body, holding a magnifying glass up to the woman's limp fingers, the bottom of his coat resting dangerously close to the crimson pool. "this wasn't suicide, it was murder" he snapped his magnifying glass together again with a satisfying click and rose gracefully to his feet as he slid it back into his coat pocket. "What do the victims have in common?" he directed towards Lestrade.

"Wait what?" said the Detective Inspector incredulously glancing from the body up to Sherlock who sighed dramatically.

"I imagined your investigation _might_ have proceeded past those _crucial_ first steps in the past five days your team of idiots have been investigating" he replied sarcastically "but don't hurry yourself, I'm sure the murderer will stop at four, it's a nice round number to finish on."

"Hang on" Lestrade said hastily " Like I said, we've been treating these as suicides"

Sherlock rolled his eyes "So it would seem"

"Well she did use _her_ gun to shoot _herself_ in the head" Lestrade gestured towards the handgun nestled loosely in her bloody fingers, he paused for a moment, frowning as if he was suddenly seeing something else "Didn't she?"

"Nope" Sherlock popped the 'p' on his lips as he replied in the annoyingly superior tone he reserved almost exclusively for police officers. He fixed Lestrade with a gaze John knew only too well was likely to be followed by a long line of insults directed at Lestrade, the state of his marriage and of course the almost impressively imaginative array of descriptions Sherlock had for Scotland Yard's investigative inabilities.

"Why don't you take us through it then" John interrupted loudly, shooting Sherlock a warning glance. Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip, rearranging his features to closely imitate a petulant child and John could almost hear the word '_Dull'_ form in the Detectives mind, but of course such a thing would never pose a barrier to Sherlock expressing his deductions with as many dripping tones of superiority as a person can put into any statement._'_

"She had obviously just arrived home, heading straight to the bathroom without removing her shoes or jacket. But look how she's dressed, its cold out there, she was wearing gloves and a scarf, both of which she discarded in the lounge on the way, but not her hat. She was clearly wearing one, look at the dents in her hair, so where is it?"

"Maybe it's in her bedroom, or the kitchen?" said John questioningly

"No, she came straight to the bathroom, hat on, and was shot. There's wool fibers around the entry hole in her skull, carried by the bullet from the hat so she was definitely wearing it. The murderer took it with him then, so why? It's human psychology, people don't injure themselves through clothing, regardless of whether it would make a difference to the outcome. People slicing their wrists roll up their sleeves, people who stab themselves unclothe the area, people who drown themselves in the bath will get in naked. So the murderer knew this, took the risk of taking evidence with him to make sure the details suggested suicide. The angle and size of the wound say she was shot at close range, close for it to be believable she did it herself and even for some gunpowder residue to land on her hands. The small details, they've all been thought out. Yet the entry angle is wrong, people committing suicide with a gun almost always angle it upwards but this shot came from above, the trigger pulled by someone who was taller than her. So the murderer was in fact an amateur, someone with minimal experience, but acting on the advice or instruction of someone who knows how to stage a murder as a suicide and cares about the details."

He paused for a millisecond, frowning slightly "Cares about the details and making it look like a suicide, yet not enough to commit the murder himself and pull off the perfect facade ."

There was a pause, the few seconds of silence which always followed one of Sherlock's deductions. Lestrade was frowning down at the body piecing together everything Sherlock had said, everything which seemed so much more obvious now that it had been pointed out, well perhaps obvious was going a bit far, but surely these were the sort of things the forensics team should have picked up. Yet all they had managed was to tell him was that her fingerprints were on the gun, 'Of _course they bloody were'_ Lestrade thought _'Shes holding the damned thing.'_

Sherlock flicked the collar of his coat up, satisfied that he had impressed everyone in the room and that this case had turned out to be quite promising. John caught his eye giving him a slightly exasperated look which said _' Stop showing off.' _

"Send the files of the other three murders over to Baker Street" Sherlock directed at Lestrade before taking off lightly down the stairs.

Lestrade exhaled loudly, rubbing his eyes wearily as he reached in his pocket for his phone "The press is going to have a field day with this, four serial suicides which turn out to be murders" he shook his head "Thanks for getting Sherlock over here, he didn't sound very keen when I rang him"

"Well he's certainly enjoying himself now" said John grimly "I'll ring you if he finds something"

Lestrade nodded gratefully dialing a number into his phone and gritting his teeth as a loud voice answered on the other end.

Taking his cue, John followed Sherlock's path out the door, taking great care to avoid what was becoming a macabre stream of blood down the steps into the lounge. He paused at the door to the flat where a picture hung in a large frame, the face in the corner caught John's gaze. The woman, or the victim as John mentally corrected himself, was sitting in the middle of a luscious green field, the sun on her face as she smiled, her eyes fixed on something further forward in the frame. John followed her gaze, it was a young girl, no more than 7 years old, her hair in braids, a lopsided daisy chain onto her head.

"Her daughter" said a voice behind John following his gaze. "Terrible isn't it, all the suicide victims this week have had children" The officer shook his head sadly.

_'murder victims'_ thought John, _'not suicide._' He nodded slightly in answer to the officers comments, before ducking under the police tape and exiting the apartment, his stomach churning slightly.


	3. The Game is On

"Anything in?" asked John striding up the stairs and into the kitchen, discarding his bag onto a chair as he went. He glanced at the mess on the table, making a mental note to never use the pot ever again that was simmering softly on stove. "are those... intestines?" he wrinkled up his nose slightly, shooting a foul look at Sherlock who ignored him as usual. He was lying splayed on the couch, papers strewn on the ground around him with his long fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes were fixed intently on the ceiling and he didn't stir as John wrenched open the fridge. John stared despondently down at the pathetic sight of a half a wilting lettuce, a bag of thumbs and some mayonnaise which greeted him behind the fridge door. He sighed, letting it swing shut and trod into the lounge where he deposited heavily into his armchair, dialling for Chinese and only half heartedly registering the fact that their number was on speed dial.

"Any luck with the case?" he asked, separating the day's paper from a stack of files on the table and ruffling it open. His question was met with the usual huff of annoyance at being disturbed and grinning slightly he settled in to read the paper in the companionable silence.

"It doesn't make any sense" Sherlock grumbled several hours later, when the Chinese was eaten and John, comfortably full, was on to his third cup of tea.

"Hmm" he replied dragging his eyes from the terrible sitcom he was watching and turning to face Sherlock who had leapt from his seat and was pacing the room fervently, his blue dressing grown billowing behind him. " Age, ethnicity, occupation, none of the victims have anything in common, even the fact they live in the same area is only coincidence, the murderer was obviously too lazy to explore further afield," he declared in disgust, as if disappointed that the murderer had been so thoughtless as to exclude the rest of London.

"They all had children" said John setting his cup of tea aside " An officer at the last house told me"

"That wasn't in the files" accused Sherlock pausing mid pace and turning to face John

"Maybe the police didn't think it was important- they were treating them as suicides remember"

"Idiots"

"Well, they did _look_ like suicides"

"Hardly" scoffed Sherlock continuing his pacing "The last murder was the best attempt, the others were clumsy, rushed, clearly an amateur. One of them struggled and he had so much trouble subduing her that..." He broke off mid sentence his eyes widening as he slowly brought the tips of his fingers together again, staring out the window in silence while John waited, practically hearing his brain whirring from whatever thought had just struck.

He swung slowly back around to face John and he saw Sherlock mouth the word "Kadogo" to himself and then suddenly Sherlock had sprung back into life, discarding his dressing gown in one fluid movement he grabbed his coat and knotted his scarf around his neck. " The game, John, is on" he said, his eyes blazing as he turned and pounced towards the door, wrenching it open and disappearing down the steps. John gazed longingly at the cup of tea beside him for a brief moment before sighing slightly at what looked like another late night and followed Sherlock down the stairs.

"So where are we going?" John asked, daring to break Sherlock's 'thinking time' as the cab pulled into a badly lit neighborhood on the outskirts of London. They had been driving in irregular circles for the best part of an hour under Sherlock's brief instructions of _'just drive'_ to which the Cabbie was only too happy to comply with. _'I don't blame him'_ thought John watching the meter climb steadily and reluctantly realizing it would be him, as usual, who would pay for it. However, they had now entered a rather dodgy part of town and John was secretly hoping this wouldn't be their final destination.

"Kadogo, John" said Sherlock turning to face him, his tone surprisingly un-irritated at the disruption to his thoughts "it's what the rebels in the Republic of Congo used to call their units of child soldiers. They would pick them up from the streets, orphans, starving, alone, afraid, the perfect canvas for creating the perfect soldier. They need less food, less drugs and are easier to discipline, to scare." His eyes darkened and despite his claims of being a sociopath, it was instances such as these which continuously disproved any such notion to John as he was clearly disgusted at the idea of child soldiers, and rightly so, John had seen the tragic outcomes of such tactics in Afghanistan and it was something he never wanted to see again.

"I said the murderer had trouble subduing one of the victims" Sherlock continued "it was because she was stronger than him. A 45 year old officer worker, addicted to reality television, hardly the type to be pumping weights at the gym so the murderer was weak. He also managed to break in and out of all the victims houses without being noticed. We've already established from the way the murders were committed that he's no expert, he simply has expert instructions." Sherlock glanced out the window again, still searching for whatever would mark their destination "So who's small and weak, used to breaking and entering? Whose absence wouldn't be missed by while they played murder, who is able to walk into any building or apartment block without raising any morbid suspicions?"

John looked up in horror as the pieces clicked together in his mind; youths on the street, alone, unnoticed by others and often so desperate they will do anything for an escape "Someone's using a child to commit their murders?" he said quietly, his voice shaking in anger.

"Yes" Sherlock glanced out the window again "although more likely he's a young teenager, 13 or 14 given he was taller than the last victim. There's been rumours in the homeless network for a while about people disappearing off the streets, none of them return, most are never seen again and those that re-appear seem to have come into unexpected sources of money."

" You think someone's bribing kids on the street to do their dirty work for them?" John repeated, determined to get this new revelation clear in his mind which was now screaming for action against the bastard.

"Yes"

"Jesus Sherlock...we need to find this guy"

"I know- just here driver" He called over the seat suddenly and the driver pulled over outside a crumbling house covered from top to bottom in graffiti. Sherlock jumped out, calling at the driver to wait who nodded reluctantly, glancing uncertainly in his rear mirror as if expecting a thug to attack him then and there. In his defense it was certainly the part of town it would happen in John thought.

The fence around the old place was falling apart, the weeds out the front overgrown and the windows smashed. The front door was open and John could see an old mattress lying up against the peeling wallpaper inside the house. There was a pile of disgusting rags sitting on the steps in front of the door. It was the part of town you never wanted to find yourself in, day or night. Rubbish everywhere and pilfered old cars rusting in the overgrown front lawns of decrepit and dirty houses. Other than the rumble of the motorway and the distant screech of fighting cats, the street was disturbingly quiet.

As they approached the house, what John had taken to be a pile of rags took a shuddering breath and two beady eyes appeared from the cloth " What ar' yew doin' here?" a woman's voice croaked. Sherlock said nothing, simply holding out a small strip of paper with a word scrawled on it that John couldn't read. The mass of rags shifted and a scrawny hand shot out snatching the paper. On closer inspection it appeared she was wearing at least 5 various jumpers, all patched and held together with scarves and other scraps of cloth. The accumulation of clothing gave her a very bulky, unnatural shape from which it was almost impossible to distinguish her size or indeed the existence of any other limbs. Her head seemed almost comically tiny in comparison to her falsely bulbous torso, her scraggly black hair was long and twisted into a messy braid. Her weathered brow pulled together and as she smacked her lips over the word on the paper, John could make out three yellow teeth lying crookedly on her aged gums. "Bit of a risk askin' bout this one" she drawled, glaring up at Sherlock. "I 'eard somefink bout some kids goin' missin', but I seem to 'ave forgotten what it was." She bared her three teeth in what John could only imagine was a disturbing attempt at a smile.

Sherlock sourced a few notes from somewhere in his coat and held them out to her, she snatched them almost faster than John could see, licking her lips slightly as the money disappeared into her jumpers "I seem to 'ave remembered what I was gunna say" she sniffed, tucking the notes away.

"I thought you might" Sherlock dropped to a knee so they were face to face, somehow oblivious to the stench which was radiating off her.

"They call him the Snatcha" she said quietly, leaning forward so her lips were closer to Sherlocks ear, and John felt himself lean forward to catch the words which quickly followed "He comes for 'em, don't know what he says to 'em but most of 'em seem ta like it and then they take off. Don't usually see 'em again afta that. There's rumours though, I 'ear 'em sometimes, 'bout a cabin in the forest south of London. They say thats wer' they meet 'em, an' talk, make their deals, they say thats wer' they sell their soul to the devil."

The bundle of rags struggled to her feet "If I was you, I wern't be askin' about it no more, I wern't be thinkin' 'bout it, jus' leave it." The last words were forceful and John could see a glimpse of something in her beady eyes before she lurched through the old wooden door slamming it behind her. It was fear.


	4. Crawford

It was 6.25pm when Samael Crawford set off into the large pine forest; sunset. He glanced skyward before the sight disappeared behind the almost opaque web of branches crisscrossing high above the spongy forest floor. He smiled in satisfaction. A man like him did not usually stop to admire nature, he was not the sort to indulge in fanciful and optimistic thoughts about his future whilst basking in the beauty of the natural world.

But he did enjoy sunsets.

It was not the colours, nor was it the representation of another day ending, the constancy of natures routine which other may see depicted in such a moment.

He had no patience for such trifles.

What he derived pleasure from was the sight of the last, feeble rays of light trying desperately to overcome the unforgiving darkness. He liked this battle on the horizon, to watch the final waves warmth falter, splutter and die before the overwhelming force of night. It reminded him of the desperate struggle for life which plays out in a dying mans eyes, it represented to him the desperation on ones face when their last vestige of hope is finally extinguished and it reminded him that all the weak, pathetic, wasteful lives populating this earth would also meet their end under the inevitability of time.

Yes, Samael Crawford liked sunsets.

Crawford knew the cabin was a bit dramatic, unnecessary and certainly cumbersome to reach, but he liked its flair. It was an exact replica, down to the last cracked window, of a place he had stumbled across deep in the Russian wilderness many decades before. To anyone else it as just an old wreck happening to contribute a crucial psychological element to the business which took place inside: recruitment. But for Crawford it was something more, it was sentimental, it reminded him the day he committed his first murder. He paused on the winding path for a few long minutes, waiting for his companion to join him. A shuffle of leaves and the snapping of twigs finally announced the other mans arrival and a figure limped out of the woods.

"Evening" grunted the figure, stopping several meters from Crawford, as if afraid to bring the conversation any closer than absolutely necessary. Crawford smiled, he could feel the other mans apprehension at being in such close proximity to him, and it was excellent.

"He's waiting for you" Crawford drawled feeling his upper lip curve in disgust as he glanced across at the other man, his scraggly hair, his gnarled hands and those enormous, cerulean eyes. He hated dealing direct with people like this, but it was a necessary part of his line of work, and beside, his mere presence always seemed to spur on better results. His reputation preceded him, and that was exactly how he liked it.

The older man nodded "Didn't think it would take him long."

* * *

By the time the old man had left Crawford and arrived at the cabin it had started to rain, great heavy drops plummeting to the ground, saturating it. The resonance of rain on the cabins tin roof was oddly comforting and the old man took a deep breath, closing his eyes to savour the moment, the anticipation building in his stomach, it was like standing on the precipice of a cliff preparing for the jump, it was the last moment of peace before the action, the breath before the plunge. He threw open the door and entered the cabin to greet its occupant.

It was dark inside, the feeble light from the small guttering fire in the grate casting long shadows across the inside of the cabin. The two high backed armchairs faced away from the old man, towards the fire, but nevertheless he knew that one was occupied. "Good evening Mr Holmes" he said conversationally, lighting an old gas lamp on the windowsill, which flared to life with a hiss, although doing little to dispel the meagre lighting of the cabin.

"Congratulations on your little plan" Sherlock said his voice dripping with sarcasm "That's what all of this was about wasn't it, getting my attention?"

"Worked didn't it?"

"Suicides which turn out to be murders" Sherlock's voice was bored "Hardly the most imaginative of scenarios"

"Fooled the police"

"How impressive of you"

"Got you on the case though" the old man settled comfortably into the other chair before the fire, grabbing the poker and giving the logs a few hard stabs in a futile attempt to stimulate more flames.

"In a manner of speaking" Sherlock retorted crossing his legs and surveying the old man opposite him. He appeared elderly and weak from the outside, despite the fact he could be no older than 60, but Sherlock wasn't fooled, it was an act. There was a sparkle in his eye, a quiet confidence in his movement that said this was a man of action. "I know who you are, what you're doing. It wasn't exactly difficult" he sighed in distain "How dull" he drew out the word his eyebrows raised at the tedium of having solved the case so easily as if this man had done him a great disservice by being so obvious.

"It wasn't about the murders" the old man sneered "that was just to make sure this happened" he gestured at their meeting.

"Obviously" Sherlock drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the chair's ugly, floral arm "Next time just send me a text, much less effort"

"Thought this was more your style"

"I prefer not having my time wasted with purposeless theatrics"

The man's eyes darkened "Well I'll get right to the point then"

"Please do" replied Sherlock "I've got a very time dependent experiment on the stove" He raised his eyes at the man expectantly.

" You think I'm bribing youths on the street, using them for my own purposes"

"Theft, money laundering, border trafficking, blackmail-and the occasional murder" Sherlock observed calmly.

"You're very clever Mr Holmes"

"You're not very difficult to deduce"

The old man smiled "Well you're right of course...mostly. They're very useful to me, these youths on the street, but that's not important, you have no evidence I'm doing anything else but getting them out of the alleys and putting them in houses, sending them to schools. For all intensive purposes I'm just a good Samaritan, unless of course you have a warrant to arrest me" he smirked.

"I don't do the arresting" Sherlock yawned "I leave such activities to the idiots Lestrade calls his _team_" He waved his hand dismissively at the thought, as if offended someone dared to suggest he would stoop to the tedious level of actually arresting people "the lack of convincing evidence against you of course is just a technicality, something easily remedied with a few phone calls"

"I'm sure it is" said the man nodding "but by then I'll be gone, I have no intention of wasting my time with the police"

"It's terribly ambitious of you to think you could escape"

"Oh, I have no doubt you could find me, Mr Holmes" the man affirmed "In fact I'm counting on it" He leant forward in seat, his eyes changing from the calmness of their previous conversation, any warmth palpably draining away, replaced by frosty anger. His next words were cold and hard, his voice low and yet Sherlock caught every word " Except next time we meet Mr Holmes, I will not have to entice you here with childish games, next time there will be no accusations of crimes, no threats of arrest, next time you will come to me to voluntarily. You will hand yourself over and then we will continue this, this association of ours we begun tonight. Except next time you will be in great pain of which I will be the cheerful implementer."

"Am I supposed to be afraid" Sherlock snapped, his patience for this game evaporating quickly, he did not like riddles.

"A wise man would be. Our actions have consequences Mr Holmes, there's always the one that matters, the pressure point which changes everything. You should remember that." He sat back in his chair, the anger in his eyes dissipating slightly, "Do you want to hear a story"

"I'd rather not"

"I have a daughter you know, her name is Katherine" the man continued disregarding Sherlock's statement, his face softening slightly at the thought " She was bright wee girl, laughed a lot, had great dreams of an exciting future. She wanted to be writer." His face twisted in a grimace of pain "But not anymore, she won't do anything now"

"As fascinating as I'm sure your tales of domestic life are, I really must be off" Sherlock rose to his feet, flicking his collar up as he stood next to the man's chair "Well this has been...interesting. I'm sure the police will be in touch very soon"

The old man did not look surprised at Sherlock's exit "until we meet again" he murmured to himself as the cabin door swung shut, the rain falling even harder outside. The man sat there thoughtfully, enjoying already what he knew would come next, he was still sitting in the old chair, in the cabin deep in the woods, when the rain finally stopped and the feeble fire had guttered out.


	5. A Day of Blood

"What is this place Sherlock?" asked John as they climbed the wide, stone steps and passed through the open door into a long hallway carpeted in faded green.

"The final piece of the puzzle" Sherlock replied striding ahead, his long legs carrying slightly faster than it was easy for John to match.

John didn't dignify that with a response, his flatmates cryptic comments and purposely unhelpful statements were certainly nothing to new to him, but it didn't make them any less annoying. He gritted his teeth together and marched after Sherlock, blinking his eyes as they pricked with tiredness.

After Sherlock arrived back from the cabin he had picked up his violin and proceeded to play without any sort of explanation to John about his whereabouts nor why he was so late. The violin had continued until about 3am at which time Sherlock had burst into Johns room declaring that they needed to head out immediately to talk to someone. The following shouting match, which surely woke Mrs Hudson and the neighbors, although wisely neither had come to investigate, ended only when John forcibly removed Sherlock from his room and locked the door.

Previous experience had taught him that trying to reason with an angry and sulking detective who often resorted to the tactics of a five year old having a temper tantrum, was utterly useless. But not to be put off from expressing his dislike at Johns refusal to leave the house by a locked door, Sherlock had stomped back downstairs and then proceeded to play an awful, ear splintering piece on his instrument which sounded more like a cat being brutally slaughtered in the lounge than any piece of music John had ever heard.

Thus needless to say he hadn't got much sleep, although his annoyance at Sherlock had been redeemed slightly during the satisfying two hours he took that morning slowly and painstakingly getting dressed, eating breakfast and reading every section of the paper before declaring to an impatiently pacing Sherlock that he was ready to go. It was the little things.

The hallway of the building was wide and lined with multiple old fashioned wooden doors filled with thick glass. John caught a glimpse of a several big lounges within which several people were scattered inside, some playing what looked like children's board games while others simply sat or paced. As they reached the reception John saw a sign hanging above the old fashioned desk which he must have missed on the front of the building_ 'Lord Josephs Psychiatric Treatment Center.'_

"This way dears" said the plump woman behind the counter who was clearly expecting them. She led them through the labyrinth of corridors, John was surprised at how big the place was. The walls were painted a shade of sunshine yellow rights out of the 70's which clashed terribly with the green carpet. The hospital was rather quiet, with the occasional shouts and nonsensical murmurings which echoed under closed doors. Finally the woman stopped outside a heavy wooden door with frosted glass at the west end of the building. "She's in there, ain't dangerous, but best not to chat for too long. She gets nervous you see" She shook her head sympathetically "Especially if Rose is in there with her"

"Rose?" asked Sherlock glancing down at the women

"Her imaginary friend dearie" said the lady as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock nodded briefly, this was clearly not news to him. "You can go" he waved dismissively to the women, who instead of looking offended just nodded pleasantly, patting Sherlock on the arm and waddling back down the hall. John guessed she was used to much worse than rude detectives, but he still muttered 'sorry' as she passed him.

He didn't bother asking how Sherlock had found this place, who he had convinced to let them just waltz in here and visit a patient, or why the police were not accompanying them on something which was clearly to do with a case, he simply asked "Who are we here to see" folding his arms in a way which stated they were not proceeding any further until he had some answers.

"Katherine Lynch" replied Sherlock moving closer the doorway "the daughter of the man who planned the murders"

"Wait, I thought that case was solved, you said the Yard was going to make an arrest"

"No, I said they were going to _try_ and make an arrest. There's more to this than the murders John, they don't matter, they were just collateral in his wider scheme, a scheme I intend to get to the bottom of"

"Four women died Sherlock" John stated bitterly

Sherlock frowned down at him "Yes John, they died. Whats important is why he tried to get our attention. The murders were just a tool to him" he said impatiently "But all the victims had children, that's why the murderer picked them, he saw them playing happy families and decided if anyone should die for his plan to be set in motion it might was well be them."

"Because his own daughters insane"

"Clearly" said Sherlock waving his hand around at the dated inside of the building the were in "But this wasn't about murder, don't you see" he said sharply "He's trying to get to me, and his daughter has something to do with it"

"Trying to get to you? Sherlock what's..."

But the consulting detective had already pulled the door open and disappeared inside.

The inside of the room surprised John, he had expected it to be as plain and institutional as the rest of the place but instead the walls were adorned with pictures of animals and flowers, all situated crookedly on the walls. There was a single bed pushed up against one corner of the wall, the duvet bright pink, and piled with teddy bears. There was a table shoved up against the wall next to the door with two small plastic seats in front of it, and several clumsy, childlike drawings scattered on it, surrounded by thick crayons. The only other furniture was an old dusty beanbag in the middle of the floor and a trunk at the end of the bed upon which a precarious stack of dog-eared books sat.

Katherine Lynch looked up at the intrusion into her room. How odd, it was two men. Usually a lady brought her morning tea, a kind lady with soft hands who would help her brush her pony's tails. Neither of them were carrying juice and biscuits like the nice lady, so she glared at them, hoping it would put them off, maybe they would leave. She didn't like visitors, Rose didn't like her to have visitors either.

One of the men was tall and thin, he had dark curly hair and was wearing a long coat. She liked it, she wondered if he would give it to her. The other man was shorter, he was wearing a black jacket and jeans, he had light hair and kind eyes. She liked this one. The tall one sank into one of the small plastic chairs in front of the table, rearranging his long legs gracefully under the tiny plastic legs which bent slightly under his weight.

The other man was less elegant, he nearly fell out of the tiny chair, Katherine giggled and he looked up her, smiling slightly. But his eyes were confused, people always looked like that when they saw her room. She liked her room, the pink, the ponies, she liked to draw, despite what her father had said. He said she was too old, she tried to remember her last birthday, there had been 28 candles, she remembered counting them in excitement, they were sparkly. Was 28 too old? She didn't know, but why would it be? Was there a rule which said you couldn't play with toys and colour in at a certain age?

The kind looking man had spoken to her, he must have asked a question, their faces were expectant, waiting for an answer. She picked up her pony, she didn't feel like talking but these men were interesting, she wanted to know more about them.

"Who are you, why are you here?" she demanded, ignoring whatever the man had asked her.

"We're just visitors" the tall one said softly, he didn't look like he usually spoke softly, so why was he now? It was confusing.

"You're lying" She replied in a singsong voice, making her pony ride across the duvet. She never got visitors, only her father but even he didn't come very often anymore. Not that it mattered, he never looked happy, she didn't like people like that. Why couldn't people just be happy, was it really that hard?

"Are you happy though?" said a voice in answer to her mental question and she looked at the empty beanbag, it was Rose. She ignored Rose, and turned back to the two men, they hadn't missed her prolonged stare at the empty bean bag.

"They think I'm insane" she said, calmly as an explanation for her actions, shrugging as if this was the least important thing in the world "but perhaps they're right, maybe I am...I mean maybe, but if this is all there is, if this is where I have to stay..." She glared at the walls of her room, her prison, "Then maybe being insane is OK." How bored she would be without Rose, how bored she would be if she had to act like a grown up.

The tall man asked about Rose, his eyes were fascinating, she wanted to see them closer, but people didn't like it when she came too close. Maybe they thought she would attack them, but then again, maybe she would.

He asked about Rose again and Katherine sighed, she didn't want to talk about her, but the kind man was smiling at her again, she didn't want to disappoint him so maybe she could talk about Rose, just for a little bit. "Shes not real" Katherine said to the kind man who looked up in surprise, glancing at his companion.

"You know she's not real" The shorter blonde man asked.

"Just because shes not real doesn't mean I can't see her, it doesn't mean she isn't here" Katherine sighed. People never did understand. Rose had always been there, as long as she could remember, well maybe not quite, there was a time before her, a long time ago before the day which changed everything. The day with the blood, it was everywhere, it was dripping, its thicker than she thought it would be, and redder. Why was there so much of it? Why did it keep dripping, drip, drip, drip. She hated the sound, it scared her, that day scared her. But then Rose had appeared, her face was familiar, maybe she was around on the day of blood as well. Katherine knew no one else could see Rose, and a man in a white coat said that was because she wasn't real, but she was still there, she still spoke, played with Katherine, told her stories.

Rose distracted her from the memories of the day of blood, pulled her back from the all consuming darkness which hovered around the corners of her mind when she thought about it. Other people didn't like Rose though, and so they had sent Katherine here, to the big house with the kind nurse with the juice and biscuits.

Katherine told this all to the two men. The kind man looked sad, maybe he hated dripping as well, maybe he had a day of blood he wanted to forget too. The tall man's face was different, he did not seem surprised by Katherine's story, that was odd, did he know already? But there was a slight confusion in his eyes, like something still didn't make sense.

The kind man mouthed_ 'PTSD_' questioningly to his friend, Katherine knew that word, the people here used it lots, sometimes about her. What was it though? Was it a disease? Was it a drug? If she had it, why didn't they fix it, maybe it would make Rose go away, she didn't need Rose anymore, some days she didn't even think about the blood and the dripping. But Rose refused to leave, her presence which had once saved Katherine now incarcerated her just as much as the big house she lived in.

The tall man said her father's name and she froze, did he know him? Maybe this was why he was here, to ask about him, maybe about him and Rose. No she didn't want that, she scuttled back on her bed and hid her face on the pillow. Hadn't she told them enough, she had talked about Rose, about the day of blood. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the kind man stand up, he told the other man that they should probably go.

"Wait" Katherine gulped nervously " Don't go, don't leave me with Rose, she doesn't help me anymore, she makes it worse. Will you help me, will you make it better? Maybe I could act older, maybe I would be OK if you let me out of here. I could come with you. I would be good, I promise" She cried desperately "Please!"

Both men had paused, now even the tall one looked a bit sad, but neither of them said yes, they said other things spoken quickly as if they didn't know how to respond. She heard the words sorry, and goodbye, but no cries of yes, no one grabbed her and lead her outside into the sunshine. No one set her free from Rose, from the big house with the juice and biscuits and people in white coats.

"Please!" she screamed again louder this time, perhaps she screamed it many time, because the men hurried from the room calling for someone, maybe the kind lady with morning tea. Rose laughed, Katherine spun around to face her in the bean bag "Stop" she sobbed, but Rose kept laughing, why was she so cruel. Katherine felt a needle in her arm and things started to go black, they always did this when she screamed and threw things for too long. But the darkness was nice, it was peaceful.

She knew when she woke they would be in the padded room again, in the white jacket which bound her arms against her chest so she couldn't move. But what was one more cage? She glanced at Rose, there was a flush in her cheeks now, like she had more life. 'Perhaps its mine she's taken' thought Katherine before it all went black.

**...**

The drive back to Baker street was silent as both men digested what had just happened. Sherlock was deep in thought and for once John did not dare disturb him. Whatever was going on, and he hoped Sherlock would soon enlighten him to the rest of the details, he got the sense the man they were still looking for was far more dangerous than either of them had originally thought. Katherine's face appeared in his mind again, her cries still echoing in his ears, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the guilt churning in his stomach. It wasn't right, he wanted to help her even though he knew there was nothing more to be done that Lord Josephs wouldn't have tried. He wondered what the _'day of blood'_ was she spoke about, what had happened to her to send her over the edge. Was it her father?

Sherlock's side comment at the hospital echoed around in Johns mind as the cab twisted through the bustling streets of London '... hes trying to get to me...' Whatever he meant by that, John didn't like the sound of it.

Sherlock leapt out first as they arrived back at Baker street, bending down to sweep up a brown package jammed under the door to 221B while John paid the driver.

Upstairs Sherlock tore the package open while John put on the jug. "Want a cuppa?" John called from the kitchen, pulling out two mugs anyway.

"Sherlock?" John popped his head through into the lounge where Sherlock was standing, dead still, coat and scarf still on, the open package clutched tightly in his hands. His face had paled slightly, his grey eyes wide and as he glanced over at John he saw a flicker of something in Sherlock's face, was it panic? But it was gone so fast John thought he must have imagined it "What's in the package" he asked, slightly concerned at his flatmates reaction.

"Nothing" snapped Sherlock angling it away so John couldn't see the papers he held in his hands, so John wouldn't see the picture of his own face. So John could not read the scrawled red words on the picture, the same words the murderer said at the cabin _'there's always the one that matters, the pressure point which changes everything. You should remember that Mr Holmes.'_ He shoved the package into his coat so John would not know he was in danger -in danger because of Sherlock and from a man Sherlock knew only one way to stop.

"I'm going out" Sherlock stated, forcing all emotion from his voice " There's something I need to do"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock what's going on? Let me help" replied John loudly, his frustration getting the better of him.

"No, on my own" said Sherlock already out the door, his shoes echoing on the wooden steps.

John threw up his hands in anger, cursing loudly as he stomped back into the kitchen, making his cup of tea with much more force than was necessary. Sitting in the lounge he saw a small piece of white paper which must have slipped out of the package before Sherlock took off. He knelt down to grab it, his stomach turning when he saw the words written on it.

**" Found the final piece of the puzzle have you Mr Holmes? Very good. I'll be seeing you soon then. You know what will happen if you don't."**

* * *

**Authors note.**

**Thanks heaps for reading guys! This is the first fic I've ever written, the story has been in my head for ages so I decided I might as well put it down on paper, never actually expected any one to read it :)**

**Special thanks to Silverheart, GirlatTheRockShow182, spinalcracker and LifeisSupernatural500 for your lovely reviews :) you guys are awesome xx**


	6. Revenge

The old man was waiting for Sherlock to arrive, no doubt in his mind that the detective would appear. As Crawford had told him at the start: Sherlock Holmes would do anything to protect John Watson.

The old man had no real intention of hurting Watson, he was unimportant, a tool, nothing more. But Sherlock didn't know that. The old man knew Sherlock would have investigated him thoroughly, determining whether he was really a threat or not.

What he would have found was evidence that the old man was a brutal, sadistic man who never gave a threat he would not carry out. He would have discovered a web of people, of back-ally deals, secret meeting, and undercover plots, all of which reinforced the same idea.

The only way to protect John was to do exactly as the old man asked.

Of course all of these records and items of evidence were fake, but Sherlock didn't know that. Crawford had created a new past for the old man to throw Sherlock off the scent, and Crawford was a meticulous man who left no trace. He had been invaluable in assisting in the destruction of Sherlock Holmes.

And sure enough, there he was, striding into the old warehouse, a deep determination in his walk that the old man admired. He nodded at his hired thug who thundered out from behind an old shipping container, catching Sherlock's jaw in a heavy punch which threw him against the steel edge of the container. He was out cold instantly.

The old man knew Sherlock had seen the punch coming, the thug was hardly one to move quietly and quickly, but yet he had made no move to avoid the oncoming fist, there wasn't really a choice and he knew it.

The old man grinned this was going to be fun.

**_..._**

Sherlock Holmes regained consciousness with a crippling headache. As lumbering and idiotic as the old man's thug was, he certainly had a strong punch.

_Where am I? He _turned his head but he was surrounded by a deep, thick, cave like darkness.

He was lying on his back with his hands at his sides. He could feel the cold floor beneath him, it was hard and smooth. He moved his fingers and toes, checking everything was in working order before he sat upright, his head smashing into something hard just a few inches above his head. Pain exploded through his skull again and he fell back, verging on unconsciousness again, his ears ringing.

He blearily reached up, fumbling in the darkness to find the obstruction above him. It appeared the rooms ceiling was less than a foot above him.

_What on earth?_

As his confused brain tried to make sense of this he spread his arms to the sides in an attempt to roll over but both hands hit smooth, cold walls.

The truth dawned on him, it wasn't a room at all, it was a box.

A plain, un-cushioned wooden box. His fingers searched along the corners, finding a thick solid seal along every edge. He searched for a handle, a weakness, a hole, anything that would suggest a way out, but there was nothing.

Trapped, airtight, alone.

His heart began to pound and he pushed against the sides of the box as hard as he could, kicking his legs out with all the strength he could muster, but nothing budged. He shouted out, but he knew it was in vain, if the old man had put him in here, he hardly would have left the box sitting out in the open where he was in earshot of a passerby.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid _he thought as his brain whirred, all escape possibilities flashing through his mind at once. Why had he come? Walked knowingly into a trap?

_For John _said a little voice at the back of his mind. And it was right.

The old man wanted to hurt Sherlock in the way he had been, the kind of pain which comes only from watching loved ones die. Katherine may have been alive in the physical sense of the word, but the old man had lost his little girl, watched her body grow, but her mind remain trapped in the nightmare, the fantasy world she had created for herself.

Perhaps Sherlock should have felt pity for him, maybe he did, somewhere deep in the expanse of his mind. But at the moment he was simply angry, angry that he had threatened John.

Sherlock had investigated the old man's past, his many previous instances of threats and blackmail. He discovered enough to know this man never stopped, he always got what he wanted, and if he had decided to hurt John that was exactly what would happen unless Sherlock did as he was told. He knew he had only one choice when that package had arrived on his doorstep.

But the old man was also a man of his word, he would not hurt John now he had Sherlock. Sherlock would die but John would be safe.

_Sherlock would die._

This was the conclusion his mind had arrived at. No one to let him out, no one to hear him, no way to break out of the airtight box.

How long had he been in there? Minutes, hours? He didn't know how long he had been unconscious, but the air was already very thin, his chest heaving, desperately searching for oxygen.

Sweat poured off his face, he could feel it running through his hair, it left wet marks on his cheeks, dripping onto the floor of the box. He knew he had to slow his heart-rate, use less oxygen but despite all his logic and mental power telling him to remain calm, he could feel panic rising in the pit of his stomach. In the dark silence of the box his ability to repress such futile emotions seemed to have failed.

All he knew is that he did not want to die.

It was not as though death was an unspeakable evil lurking in his future, he knew all lives ended and he believed there was a right time to die. But this was not it. How incongruous it would be, a man with his talents, chasing murderers and serial killers, dying alone and trapped in a box, no chance to finish things, no chance to say goodbye.

He almost laughed, how ludicrous, lying here in his last moments thinking about goodbyes, about what he would say to John, Mrs Hudson, perhaps even Mycroft. How cliché, useless, pointless sentiment. Perhaps it was the oxygen deprivation, yes, that would explain it, that's what he would tell himself.

But far less easy to blame away with excuses of oxygen deprivation was the emotion which surfaced at that moment, breaking free from the restraints of his mind and consuming his entire body.

He was afraid.

More than afraid, he was terrified. The impending certainty of his own demise rang through his body like an alarm and calmness, logic, rationality flew out the window. He pounded the roof frantically, he was shouting although he didn't know what words were tumbling from his mouth. His tongue felt thick and dry, his chest rasping as his lungs fought desperately for the air which was no longer available.

Black spots swam across his vision and his arms dropped clumsily back to his sides, suddenly too weak to move.

_So this was death _he thought as his vision swam and darkened, it was more peaceful than he had imagined, the fear was going, replaced by something else... contentment? It had been so long since he had felt anything like it, his brain seemed quiet now, for the first time in decades silence descended into his mind. It was nice, relaxing, perhaps death wouldn't be so bad after all.

Then suddenly the lid of the box was being torn off and a rush of cold air engulfed him. He opened his mouth wide, taking enormous, heaving, greedy breaths.

The rush of oxygen was intoxicating, the feel of air in his desperate lungs bringing a greater relief than he could have imagined. Before he could make out the face of his savior swimming above him the box was tipped over and he fell unceremoniously onto the cold concrete. Rough hands grabbed him, too weak to fight them off he was dragged backwards. There was a click of metal and he was handcuffed to something above his head. Still on his knees he lifted his eyes to the figure before him.

Not a savior after all.

It was the old man, a grin on his face and what looked like a television remote in his hand.

"Shocking isn't it" smiled the old man crouching down next to Sherlock on the cold concrete "Who'd want to hurt you?"

_..._

Sherlock estimated he had been there for 12 hours. Since the old man had released him from the box and rolled it away he had been left alone. After 15 minutes his shoulders had been screaming in protest about their position. After 12 hours he wasn't sure he still had arms.

There was a creak above him as someone moved upstairs. Sherlock had deduced he was in the basement of an old factory, probably near the southern banks of the Thames going by the type of brickwork. The room was large, concrete and windowless. Utterly empty except for a kitchen chair and an old rusting basin both against the opposite wall. He couldn't see what he was handcuffed too, but it appeared to be buried very deeply in the thick concrete walls and wouldn't budge.

The thick steel door swung open, thudding heavily into the concrete wall behind it and the old man walked in. Or perhaps swaggered was a better word, his hands were in his pockets, his scraggly hair pulled into a loose ponytail low on his head and the remote he had before was sticking out of his back pocket.

He paused in the center of the room, grinning down at Sherlock kneeling on the cold concrete "Hope you slept well."

He sauntered over to the kitchen chair, the limp and hunched shoulders he wore when Sherlock met him in the cabin were gone. All had all been an act as Sherlock suspected. The old man grabbed the back of the chair and slowly dragged it along the ground, its metal legs screeching. He stopped three feet from Sherlock and settled into it, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his thighs.

"I could have killed you at the start if I wanted to, you know that don't you?" He said calmly, scrutinizing Sherlock closely with his clear blue eyes.

"Why didn't you?"

The man smiled slightly, "Because I don't want to kill you Mr Holmes" he said coldly "I want to watch you suffer."

"Oh" Sherlock replied staring him right in the eyes "Are you going to tell me more stories about your domestic life. I do hope part two is less tedious"

The man struck him hard across the face, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing around the room. Sherlock's head jerked under the force but he didn't utter a sound. He glared up into his captors eyes, cheek burning, he would never give this man the satisfaction by making a sound of pain.

"You should have let me finish my story in the cabin" the old man snarled

"You should have summarized"

The old man smiled again, a cold, cruel smile that stopped far short of his eyes.

"I suppose you think you're brave Mr Holmes. But you forget I heard you in the box. Did you enjoy it Mr Holmes, the feeling of your life force draining away breath by breath, powerless to stop felt the fear didn't you, the fear of death, of your body giving up long before your mind is ready. Being gone, lost forever. The word unchanged, uncaring as just another life flickers to a close"

The man tapped his fingers on his legs "Fear" he hissed staring down at Sherlock, his eyes dark "Fear is the real mind killer. Its clever, treacherous, it has no decency, obeys no laws. It is merciless. Life's only true opponent."

The old man's eyes were blazing "The world needs more fear Mr Holmes."

He sighed leaning back in his chair, the expression on his lined face unreadable. "Its time to hear the end of my story Mr Holmes" he said thoughtfully, ignoring the dramatic sigh from his prisoner, too lost in his own thoughts.

"There's really no need" Sherlock replied, shifting his leg which had fallen asleep for the 8th time, his shoulders grinding painfully, the handcuffs digging into his wrists. "You're wrong"

"What did you say" The old man snapped, unfolding his arms as if to hit Sherlock again, fury etched in every line on his face.

"You did this because you blame me for what happened to Katherine, but you're wrong, we've never met before, your daughter and I. I don't forget faces"

The man smirked "You're right; of course. But you're still missing something, you have been all along although I'm not surprised you didn't see it as important. They say you don't understand human nature, perhaps you think that makes you smarter, better. But you'd be wrong about that as well, it means you miss things, links and connections which others would see plain as day. So no, Mr Holmes, you never met my daughter, but you did meet my wife."

Sherlock frowned slightly, he was surprised at this, had he really missed something? No that was impossible, he had looked at everything important, everything that could possibly suggest he had in any way contributed to Katherine's insanity, but there had been no link.

He had concluded the old man was just as mad as his daughter, a case of mistaken identity, perhaps he had seen Sherlock's picture in the paper and made up a story in his mind which somehow made Sherlock responsible. People did that, Sherlock had thought, found someone to blame, a scapegoat to shift culpability onto while they eased their own conscience.

"Perhaps you don't remember Mr Holmes, it was many years ago, you were just a teenager. My wife worked at the coffee shop across from your high school, you went there often. I remember her telling me about you, _a bright young boy_ she had called you, she said you saw things most people missed, could tell someone's whole life story by simply looking at them. She found you fascinating. So one day she talked to you and you did deduce her whole life. You knew she had a dog and a daughter, that she loved to swim and read. You knew she volunteered at a hospice on the weekends, and did flower arrangements for extra money. You knew it was her dream to be a nurse and that she was saving to do the study."

He paused speaking slowly as if the next words caused him physical pain, "You also told her that her husband was having an affair._" _

Sherlock frowned up at him, confused "So she left you, is that what this is all about?" he said incredulously.

"No she didn't leave me!" spat the old man jumping up from his chair and pacing in circles behind it, his hands shaking. "She killed herself."

There was a long pause in which they stared at each other. The man was trembling from head to toe, his baggy clothing shaking visibly, fists clenched and his face white.

The effort it took to say those words was obvious on his drawn face. His eyes were no longer angry, the cruelty and bitterness Sherlock had seen in them before was gone. There was only sadness now, swimming in the deep blue of his eyes, sadness and a hollow, yearning loneliness. The light which had flared from his face moments ago seemed to have gone out.

Once again he stood like the old man his face told him to be, shoulders slumped, arms limp.

Except this time it was not an act.

It was one of the few moments in Sherlock's life where he did not know what to say. The old man had been right, Sherlock had missed this. He hadn't seen the other family relationships as important, or something which would have mattered in this case.

In fact he rarely did, it was always John who brought such things to his attention. Sherlock had never truly understood the emotion and connections people like John or Mrs Hudson associated with family.

Perhaps it was because they did not exist, or perhaps it was because he thought no one had ever felt them towards him. Cared about him in the way only family can do.

So he dismissed them an unimportant and it had been a costly mistake.

"She took a knife into the bath" the old man continued, his voice dull and lifeless "and slit her throat. It was Katherine who found her, the bathroom flooded, covered in blood. "

_Drip, drip, drip, _Katherine's words echoed in Sherlock's mind.

"She was only 10" The man stood behind the chair, leaning his elbows on its back and letting his head sag between his shoulders so he was speaking to the ground. "I came home to find my wife floating dead in the tub and my daughter in the corner, soaking wet, covered in her mother's blood and screaming about voices in her head. I lost them both that day, Mr Holmes, my beautiful, gentle, kind wife, and the bright, vibrant girl who had dreamed of being a writer."

"Four days later my wife was in the ground, five weeks later my daughter was in the hospital and then I was alone. You know what it's like to be alone don't you Mr Holmes, the thick emptiness, it consumes you. I couldn't bear to visit either of them, it was all I could do to not join Rose in the ground, to shut out all the world around us and be together again."

Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, Rose, my Rose." His voice was bitter now "Perhaps you've heard the name recently. The image of my wife's suicide so traumatic it not only pushed Katherine over the edge but now the memory of her haunts my daughters every moment, a broken record of my wife playing over and over in Katherine's head, torturing her into insanity. You should hear Katherine describe her, white as a sheet, wet hair and blood pulsating from a deep slash across her throat. I don't even think Katherine knows that Rose was her mother anymore, she's just a memory of that day which haunts Katherine, keeps her prisoner in her own mind."

The man looked up from the ground, his face twisted in grief, tears disappearing off his chin and dripping to the floor. "Do you want to know the worst part" he whispered his voice breaking.

Sherlock didn't answer, his mind seemed frozen in place.

"It wasn't true. I wasn't cheating on my wife, I would never have done that, I loved her with all my heart. I was working too much, away in business and I regret that now, more than you can imagine, I regret lots of things. But I was never unfaithful."

"You were wrong, Mr Holmes. You were...just... wrong." His voice trembled, was it with anger or grief, Sherlock couldn't tell.

He walked back around and slumped into the chair again, his hands clasped together weakly as if all the life had been drained from his body.

"People make mistakes Mr Holmes, I know that. It's what makes us human. Perhaps I could have forgiven you, a young man, caught up in his own genius, I thought you would grow out of it, filter those deductions which hurt people. But you didn't, did you? I see you in the papers Mr Holmes, I know what you do, and I know that nothing has changed. You think you won't make mistakes, you think you're invincible, but that's not how the world works, not even for the great Sherlock Holmes."

His voice was quiet, "Why do you want so badly to not be human?" he wondered softly, curiosity in his voice.

"Is it easier not to feel, I imagine it is. I told you the first time we met that all actions have consequences, these consequences aren't random, they do not simply exist, they belong to us whether we want them or not."

He leaned forward so his face was directly in front of Sherlock's, it was calm now, the grief washed away. "You think the only truth that matters is the truth that can be calculated, that intentions don't count, that what's in your heart doesn't count. You think caring is a disadvantage. But just because there are things which can't be measured, that you don't want to measure, it doesn't mean they don't exist. A good man is worth the tears shed at his passing, the kind words said at his graveside, the deepness of the pain felt at his loss. But not to you. You don't see it like that and you're miserable Mr Holmes, I can see it, but for what? Does it help you solve the cases, or is that just what you do to forget how unhappy you are. There's only one decent thing in your life and yet you don't let him in either, you still push him away, put him in danger, strip your relationship with him of meaning. I should feel sorry for you Mr Holmes, but all I want is for you to feel the pain you caused me, to feel, for once, the true consequences of your actions."

He smiled, suddenly his weakness and lifelessness was gone, as if a switch had been flicked again. The man who was sad at everything he had lost was gone, he had made his last appearance to say what was needed, but in reality the grieving widower did not exist anymore. The long years had hardened the old man, turned his grief into cruelty and his sadness into an insatiable quest for revenge.

The old man had left after that, dragging the chair back across the other side of the room. He turned to Sherlock before leaving the room "Enjoy" He said quietly "He nodded up at a small camera mounted on the wall facing Sherlock "I'll be watching."

...

The thug who had punched Sherlock the day before lumbered into the room. He was tall, and solid, muscular in the extreme his forearms bulging as he pushed up the sleeves of his black shirt. His pants were black as well, tucked into dirty combat boots which were surprisingly quiet on the concrete.

His hair was military short, his features neither handsome nor ugly, his eyes brown.

It was the kind of face you forgot as soon as you had seen it.

It was impossible to tell his age by looking at him, he could have been in his twenties, or his fifties. The man's name was K, at least that's the name he used. No one knew his real name, he had forgotten it himself. A few years ago he had been one of the most feared terrorists in Europe. Very little was known about him, it was suggested he was born in Australian, but grew up in Ukraine.

Some said he blew up his local church as a child, killing 7 people after being chastised for being late to Sunday school. Again, no one knew where he had trained, or how he had come into the business of killing people, but his name had been linked with many different attacks and assassinations over the years. He had been a loose cannon, with no political or moral beliefs, he simply worked for money, no matter the job. So he had drifted, recruited by various organisation and governments.

He was good at what he did and Crawford had recruited him.

Now he was back in London on Crawford's orders to assist the old man, the money was great and so K had been only too happy to comply.

Torture was one of K's specialties.

He took great pleasure in watching people writhe, some were reduced to sniveling messes, others screamed, begged, called for their mothers, cried like children or wished for death. You could tell a lot about a man by how he reacted to pain.

The whip was K's favorite tool. It had been custom made for him by a Kazakhstani weapons expert he had stumbled upon in the Iranian desert, it was long and black, the woven leather twisted tight. Small pieces of serrated metal were attached to the hard end, perfect for separating flesh from bone. The whip had lain neglected for many years, he hadn't the opportunity to use it, until now.

It felt comfortable and familiar in his hands, like an old friend.

He pulled the prisoner up by his handcuffs, attaching them to a chain above his head so he was standing, his arms were above his head, his face towards the wall. K pulled a knife out of his jacket, flicking it open he sliced off the prisoners white shirt, the fabric fluttering to the ground.

The first lash was light, the hard edge of the whip almost lovingly stroking the pale exposed flesh before him. He liked to begin this way, test his victim. The prisoner made no sound, he didn't even flinch.

K was impressed, it would be a shame to break him.

He paused, watching the thin, shallow line on the prisoners back begin to turn red as tiny droplets of blood bedded along its length. He smiled, how he had missed this.

This time he wielded the whip with as much force as he could possibly muster. It slashed down on the back with a crack which echoed in the room, slicing into the flesh as easily as a knife through butter. He brought his arm crashing down again and again, the whip lashing wildly, cleaving the skin open, wrapping around the prisoners shoulders, back and ribs, frantically seeking for purchase on the flesh which separated under its touch, weeping thick lines of scarlet which soaked the prisoners trousers.

He lost count of the lashes.

When his arm was aching, and his own face covered in blood droplets which had detached during the whips flying circuits he dropped the whip to the ground, wiping his brow in satisfaction.

The prisoner had still not uttered a sound, many lost consciousness during such a period, but K could see his eyes open, wide and blank. His jaw clenched with such force K could see the muscles in his neck standing out.

Despite his silence, the prisoner was no longer standing under his own steam, his knees had buckled, his shoulders and wrists taking his full weight on the chains.

K let the chains fall and the prisoner fell heavily, limp to the concrete.

Sherlock lay still, listening to Ks footsteps head towards the door and slam it shut behind him. He let out a weak shaking breath, moaning slightly as he tried to sit up. The wounds on his back and sides twisting painfully. He was utterly exhausted, the effort it took not to scream in agony as he felt the whip slash open his flesh in long, fast and searing lines was enormous. He felt as if the whip would cleave him in half, cutting so deep it would reach the bone.

Each burning, agonizing lash had torn through his body and there was no blocking out the pain, no distraction strong enough to mask each slice into his skin. His whole torso felt as if it was on fire, it was the worst pain he had felt.

_Felt yet_, he reminded himself, this would just be the beginning.

And so it was. The next day it was his hands, K had tied him down on a rack and placed a small, sharp wedge of metal under each fingernail, slowly and agonizingly hammering it under the nail until it was ready to be savagely ripped off with white hot pliers. The day had passed in a blurry haze of pain as Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. By the time it was over he was trembling from head to foot, sweat dripping of his limbs and chest. K had unlocked him, leaving him free to move around the room but he remained lying on the rack, not daring to move in case he crack open the thin scabs on his destroyed back which bled freely in rivulets down his spine.

He lost all concept of time, he didn't know if it had been hours or weeks. Sometimes K would simply hit him, pounding his fists again and again, purposely striking previous wounds with startling accuracy. Sometimes it was the metal wedges, but soon there were no more nails to be removed.

The rack had doubled as a stretching unit, tightened chains heaving on his arms and legs with such force his shoulders popped painfully out of their sockets, and the skin around his shoulders and hips stretched so tightly he felt it tear, fearing any more tension would detach all four limbs.

He hadn't slept, the burning lights they turned onto him and the deafening noises made sure of that.

He was weak, the old man and K were breaking him down, and he knew he couldn't last much longer. He had managed to remain silent, but knew soon his internal screams would burst forth and the old man would get the satisfaction he so wanted. But it was this silence Sherlock hung onto with all his might, the last of his strength, his determination, his dignity and indeed his hope that this would end, all of it hung on his silence.

It was his rebellion against the old man, his only possible act of defiance, he clung onto it with everything, after all, this small act was all he had left.

He had not tried to escape, not that he had the strength anymore. He knew he must remain until the old man was finished with him, or he died. It was the only way to keep John safe. The old man knew his pressure point and he exploited it brutally. It was how he had brought Sherlock to him, and it would be how he ensured Sherlock stayed.

But the old man had grown impatient, he certainly enjoyed watching K at work, his skilled hands knowing exactly how to cause the most pain. But he wanted to hear Sherlock scream, he wanted the physical evidence of pain, he wanted to hear it echo around every wall in the entire building.

And he always got what he wanted.

Sherlock knew something was different when it was the old man who opened the door instead of K. The footsteps were softer, the breathing lighter. The old man shut the door and pulled his seat from the corner to the middle of the room, stopping a body length away from where Sherlock lay on his side, too weak to stand or move. He did manage to arrange his face into an expression of condescending disdain, and glared up at the old man for good measure.

"I admire your courage Mr Holmes, but we both know this must end soon. I have important work to be getting back to"

"Well don't let me keep you" replied Sherlock. He was pleased to hear his voice did not break, it was weaker than normal and croaky but his tone had done the trick. The old man glared down at him.

"Still with the attitude, _tut tut_, we'll have to do something about that wont we" He pulled the remote from his pocket that Sherlock had seen him with on the first day. "I didn't want to have to resort to this you know, it was here as a last resort. Mostly because I doubt you will survive it. Crawford won't be happy you're dead, but never mind that."

"Don't" Sherlock blurted out, his voice pleading "please"

The old man looked up shocked, a grin forming on his face, he had finally done it. Oh this was too good to be true, he almost leaped off the chair and did a dance, Sherlock Holmes begging for mercy.

"It turns on a video of you telling another story doesn't it?" Sherlock groaned, a look of fake horror crossing his face "I think I'll go for another round with K instead, at least he's quiet."

The old man's face was almost comical and Sherlock could have smiled, but he knew he would pay for his comments.

"This isn't a television remote Mr Holmes" snarled the old man darkly, anger flashing in his eyes "It's an on switch, for something we put in you the very first day you arrived."

Sherlock opened his mouth for a witty comeback but the words never made it out, for at that moment the old man jabbed his finger down onto the remote.

Sherlock hadn't known what to expect, hadn't imagined a kind of pain worse than he had endured.

But there was a jolt along his spine. Then his entire body burst open and knew we was dead.

It was pain beyond imagining, pain past endurance.

Every nerve, every fibre, every inch of his skin was being dragged over white-hot barbed wire. A fire blazed inside him, his very bones were on fire, the flesh surely bubbling and melting away.

The pain was so blinding, so all consuming, he no longer knew where he was, the world had disappeared, lost to the excruciating hell he writhed in. He convulsed violently splitting open his wounds which searing and wept, but that was nothing. He would take a thousand lashes instead of this, the whip was a gentle feather brushing down his skin, the sharp wedges a soft kiss on his fingers, he would live the past days again and again forever if he could just escape this agony. His back arched off the floor so sharply he thought it might snap. He was screaming, louder than he had eve screamed in his life. _Let it finish...let it be over...let death take me._

Death was nothing compared to this, it was effortless, peaceful, free of this nightmare

Then suddenly it stopped, the pain was gone as fast as it had come. He was lying face up, the cold concrete pressed harshly against his skin. He was drenched in sweat and blood from his wounds, gasping deep, painful breaths. His mind was blurry and silent.

He was vaguely aware of the old man standing over him, his face swimming. He was saying words, something about an electronic chip connected to the nervous system, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He simply lay there, unable to move, to think.

...

The old man went back to his office and sank into his chair. He should have been happy. Had he not succeeded in his aim, had he not executed his revenge in the best way he knew how?

Why did something feel wrong? He had believed that capturing Sherlock and inflicting some comparable measure of the pain he had gone through at the loss of Katherine and Rose would be enough. That it would sate his hunger for revenge which had grown stronger as the long lonely years passed by. But it didn't, it wasn't enough, somehow he had convinced himself this would make him feel better, would fill the empty cavity in his chest, heal the hurt that bubbled below the surface.

But it did not.

This is the great paradox of revenge.

There is no satisfaction or closure for those who tread the path towards retribution, no savior or absolution waiting at the end of the journey. But we convince ourselves that there is, we tell ourselves that this will fix things, that some sort of equilibrium will be created in the universe and the pain will go away.

Because its far easier than telling ourselves the truth.

For the truth is that there exists no escape from pain, from loss. Holding onto bitterness is a treacherous business, at first the pent up emotion appears to make no difference, it just waits, lurking in the recesses of our minds until one day you look at yourself and realize how much of your life it has eroded away.

It suddenly dawned on the man that perhaps there was no escape at all. They say that time heals everything, that in time even the deepest hurts will go away, but no one says how long, no one says how long we must wait for peace.

Because in reality it's all just a lie, a facade we promise ourselves to ease our minds because if we accepted the truth then how would we carry on? How would we summon the strength to get out of bed in the morning if we knew the pain would follow us forever?

Wounds heal, even the angriest scars will fade in time. But loss, grief, the memories always remain.

The pain never goes away, we simply get used to its presence.

The thought that the only thing you were living for, the one thing that had consumed your life for so many years was in fact useless will break a man. And that's exactly what happened to the old man.

What purpose remained now? What spurred him to continue?

There was nothing and suddenly he just needed it to end, then and there.

He grabbed his gun and walked back to Sherlock's prison, there was a sudden weightlessness in his step. Sherlock would die and then he would put the gun in his own mouth. The sudden certainty of this eventuality did not scare him, in fact it was a great release, a weight had been lifted from his chest, the harsh bonds that tied his life to this earth would soon be broken and it was if he would simply float away, he would be free.

He looked down at Sherlock, whose eyes flickered open, weakly focusing on the gun pointed at his head. The old man had nothing more to say, nothing more to do and this was the most comforting thought he had felt in all the long years of his life.

A trigger was pulled and it was done.

Sherlock waited for the pain to fade away, for darkness to swallow him.

Instead, almost as if in slow motion, the old man pitched forward, crumbling heavily to the ground beside Sherlock.

A bullet hole ripped through his temple.

K lowered his gun and walked over to the old man lying spread-eagled on the ground before him. He stared for a moment into those cerulean eyes, those powerful, bright eyes that the old man had once seen light from.

He was dead.

K popped his gun back into his belt.

"You killed him" said Sherlock weakly, black spots dancing across his vision

"He had become an embarrassment to us" K spoke coolly and logically "He had forsaken his other work. It was better this way"

"Not for him"

K shrugged.

"And now?" Sherlock asked, noticing K had put his gun away.

"You were not in my instructions" K replied simply and he turned and left the room.

Sherlock lay there for a few more minutes, the pool of blood from the old man slowly spreading closer. He willed his fuzzy brain into action.

He knew K and the old man had brought him here alone, there was no one else. One was dead, one had left.

He was free.

He managed to roll onto his side, he stretched across to reach into the old man's pocket, the pain of the action threatening to tip him over the edge into unconsciousness, but he fought it off, breathing heavily, searching the man's jacket until his hands closed around a small metal rectangle.

He pulled the cell phone out in relief and clumsily opened it. It took him three attempts with his mutilated fingers to dial the number but then it was ringing.

_If no one answered...if no one picked up..._

"Hello" said a voice on the other end and Sherlock sighed in relief

"John" He replied, his hands shook so much the phone fell to the ground. He managed to turn his head and he saw that miraculously the phone had remained open, the line still connected. He was saved.

And Sherlock let the darkness swallow him.


	7. The Final Puzzle Piece

John gripped his cell phone so tightly it hurt, his knuckles white.

The sound of the single word which had emitted from it echoed in his head again and again.

_John_

He was alive, Sherlock was alive, and that was all that mattered.

The past six days, the 144 hours, the 8,640 minutes which had passed since Sherlock swept from Baker Street had been absolute hell.

All they knew was that the murderer had him.

There was no trail, no evidence to follow, no clues whatsoever that would suggest where he had gone.

Lestrade's entire team was out working, but the look in his eyes told John that they were getting nowhere.

Even Mycroft had been in contact, his surveillance, for once, had failed. His all-seeing eye blinded.

_What the bloody hell was he thinking_, John had thought time and time again.

The waiting was the worst. Waiting for news, waiting for a clue, for an indication that they had found something. Waiting for the phone call that would change everything.

How time snails by when you're waiting, each minute was as long as a lifetime, the restlessness consumed John, he was exhausted and yet he couldn't manage to sleep more than an hour at a time, his mind would not stop whirring as every possible scenario flashed through his mind.

_Sherlock dead, Sherlock injured, Sherlock trapped, Sherlock alone_

There was a churning in his stomach, was it fear, guilt, panic? Perhaps all three. He felt as if he was living in a heightened version of reality.

As it turned out hell wasn't watching the people you love get hurt; it was coming in during the second act, when it was already too late to stop it, when you were utterly helpless.

And then the phone call.

He had been in Lestrade's office, he had taken to following the DI around, waiting at Scotland Yard with Greg who looked as tired as John felt.

It had taken them less than five minutes to trace the call. And then the office had leapt into action, people were shouting into phones, guns were loaded and strapped onto belts.

There were sirens, police cars, the flash of red and blue. There was an ambulance as well. John tried hard not to think about that.

He vaguely remembered Lestrade starting to tell him to stay put, to wait at the Yard, but one look at Johns face and the suggestion had died on his lips.

An old factory by the river on the outskirts of town. It was almost like a bad movie, police cars roaring up outside, spitting out armed officers who spread out, surrounding the building. Scurrying black figures moving in well practiced formation. Doors were kicked open, the scopes of guns scanned each room for evidence of the hostile. But the factory was empty.

Except for the basement room.

For a second that contained an eternity John had stood in the doorway as medics and police shoved past him. His brain tried to grapple with the scene before him. Sherlock lying on the cold concrete floor, his eyes shut, the open cell phone on the ground beside him. The world seemed to have taken on an odd quality. There were people moving in a hurry, there were orders being shouted, equipment was being fumbled with. But it was all meaningless noise, distant and muffled as if John was hearing it all through a deep thickness, listening to something very far away. There was a pounding in his ears, his movements seemed slow, he was walking towards Sherlock, moving slowly, labored as if fighting his way through a thick liquid which separated them. The whole world had taken on a dream like quality and John wondered if any of it was real.

There were two pads being attached to Sherlock's bare and bloodied chest. John saw the jolt shudder through his chest and his back arched off the ground as they tried to restart his heart.

Another charge and another.

Had it been seconds or hours? Why was everything moving so slow?

But the pads were being torn off, an oxygen mask snapped on. The body was lifted onto a stretcher and rolled out of the room. John was following, he got into the ambulance without asking, but no one told him leave.

He said Sherlock's name but there was no reply.

He wanted to reach out and touch him, reassure himself that Sherlock was really there. The hand which lay on the sheet beside him was pale and thin, the nails were gone, the bloodied tips of his fingers red and ugly. John settled for holding his wrist instead, the skin was cool, but under his shaking hands he felt something flutter, irregular and weak. But it was a heartbeat. Sherlock was alive and John took a deep breath, it felt like he hadn't breathed in six days.

It suddenly dawned upon him during the fast ambulance ride back to the hospital that if Sherlock died, he himself would die too. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen.

You couldn't live very long without a heart.

* * *

Nothingness was difficult to describe...what was it...could there really be nothing?

He was floating, soft, comfortable, peaceful.

The darkness pressed at him from every side.

Then the pain returned. Had there even been a time before the pain...he couldn't remember...maybe this was all there was...How dull.

Dull? Where had that come from?

His mind was beginning to shift again, not springing into action, but gradually moving, like the inside of an old, cold engine, slowly building up momentum, the parts unhurriedly moving in unison like they should, remembering the role they were supposed to play.

There was something on his wrist, he was aware of the pressure, was it handcuffs, was he still trapped?

No, it was warmer, softer. He focused on that alone, that one anchor to the outside world which was all his mind could handle at the moment. He felt as though he standing on a precipice, ready to jump. He didn't know where he would fall too, where it would end, but there was light down below, it called to him, called him away from the pain.

But the warmth on his wrist pulled him back, away from the edge, it was leading him away from the precipice.

_No, let me stay_

Why was it all so cruel, why couldn't it just stop, just for a moment, he wanted to let the peace in, just for a moment.

To lose himself in it all, he wanted to feel the light over the cliff face, he wanted to know what was down there.

Perhaps he could, all he had to do was turn around, take those few steps. It wouldn't take long.

_No_

Something told him he couldn't, something was dragging him back, back towards the pain, out of the darkness, back to cold reality.

"Sherlock"

There was a sound, it hurt his ears after so long in the silence, but something told him this voice was important, he tried to reach it, but it was like swimming towards the surface of a lake, hands frantically flailing upwards.

Useless, futile, the cold, the dark, the weight pulled him back down, struggling against his attempts.

He was fighting a losing battle, but the surface was so close. So close, if only he could just reach his arm up. Why wouldn't they move?

But then his hand twitched.

"Sherlock!" the sound urged "Can you hear me?"

"Sherlock"

No, it was no use, he felt himself sinking again and the darkness stole him again.

* * *

The touch was still there next time he went to surface.

Still there, always there, the anchor dragging him from the crushing deep.

He would make it this time, he was determined, he didn't like the dark, he was sick of it.

He dragged himself towards the surface, why was it so difficult?

The light of the surface just above his fingertips, he was floating, so close, just one more push.

Then his head burst free and he was back, he had escaped and reality surrounded him, the dream world was gone.

There was something else with the touch, he heard the sound again, "Sherlock?"

What was that? A thing, a person?

His name. Sherlock.

He wanted to open his eyes but the lids were so heavy, we tried to wrench them apart but they wouldn't budge. Perhaps he could pull them open with his hands, yes that would work but his hands wouldn't move.

The voice was closer, the touch warmer.

"Wake up Sherlock... please... please just wake up"

John.

He knew the voice. John was important, he knew that as well.

His eye lids fluttered, so close, so close.

He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes open with all his might.

And then there was light. It all came rushing back, the noise, the pain. There was something lodged in his throat, it was chocking him, suffocating him.

"Shh, it's OK Sherlock, don't fight the tube. You're alright, you're safe. I'm here..."

There was a blurry shape leaning over his bed, he knew that shape, the face which swam into view.

"John" He rasped past the tube in his mouth. At least that's what he had tried to say. But the shape seemed to understand.

"It's going to be alright" the voice was soft, he could hear relief in it.

He squinted his eyes and the face swum into focus. John. He searched for his eyes, finding them creased, tired but happy.

"Jesus Sherlock" John whispered "Don't ever do that to me again" He smiled weakly, his eyes were glistening.

Sherlock's lips twitched in return, it was the best he could manage.

He was so tired, everything was so exhausting. He blinked again, slowly, his eye lids were so heavy they seemed to shut all on their own.

John collapsed back into his chair, the chair he had slept in for the past several days. It was pointless to stay he had told himself, the doctors said he wouldn't wake for several days. But he couldn't bring himself to leave and so he had watched Sherlock sleep, waiting for him to wake.

He had been in surgery for several hours, they had restarted his heart three times.

A doctor had gone through his injuries, and John had listened to the long list, his face composed but his mind screaming, as images flashed before his eyes Sherlock being whipped, his nails ripped off, beaten and broken, sleep deprived and delirious. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out the images. He felt physically sick.

But then Sherlock had woken up, had said Johns name and suddenly everything was OK again. They would get through this. John could have sunk to his knees and sobbed with relief.

Sherlock was still there, John was not alone in the world.

That thought, that reality lifted the huge weight off Johns chest which had been crushing him since the moment he had found that note on the floor of Baker Street.

That's the strange thing about loss- how is it that losing something can weigh us down so much?

* * *

It was easier to wake this time, the darkness melted away without resistance. The tube was gone and he could breath. The oxygen burned in his aching lungs, but it felt right, it felt real.

The world seemed to have cleared, the fuzziness around the edges had gone. John was there, dozing in his chair, a magazine resting on the arm. It was unopened.

He was in the hospital, he could feel the bandages wrapped tightly around his hands and feet, there were dressings on all his wounds, the pain was still there but it had dimmed and he noticed the IVs and tubes feeding into his arm. The warmth of morphine was thick in his veins, comfortable, but his mind was still unpleasantly slow. There was an annoying beeping and he glared at the heart monitor. He tried to reach it, to flick it off and stop the incessant noise but the movement was painful and he gasped.

Suddenly there was a hand on his wrist, John shook his head and placed his arm back on top of the sheets "I don't think so" he said raising his eyes brows.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, staring up at his best friend "You look terrible" he said and John laughed.

"You should see yourself, bloody awful having to look at your face all day"

They both grinned at each other, avoiding the unspoken topics which hung in the air. They didn't need to go there, an entire conversation took place in that one look. The conversation where Sherlock was sorry, where John shouted at him for being stupid, for causing him so much pain. Where Sherlock made excuses and they both told each other how much they had missed one another, how relieved they were to be together and safe.

But none of it needed to be said out loud and both of them knew it, that was just how their relationship worked. John rearranged his features to look less worried, and Sherlock pretended he was in less pain.

Everything was right in the world again.

* * *

"Oh for god's sake" said Sherlock pushing his head back into the pillow and closing his eyes, feigning sleep.

"I know you're awake" called Mycroft as he strode into the room, swirling his umbrella. He nodded at John and settled into the chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed, crossing his legs. "Always one for theatrics aren't we brother dear" he observed.

Sherlock huffed, and opened his eyes, glaring at his brother "What are you doing here, isn't there a war or something you should be starting."

"I imagine it can wait until after lunch" replied Mycroft leaning his umbrella up against his seat and crossing his fingers together on top of his knees.

Sherlock groaned and turned to John, the look of an injured five year old on his bruised face.

"Nope" John replied in answer to the look, he grabbed a magazine and shook it open "I'm not getting involved" he said disappearing behind the page.

Sherlock sighed and John grinned, sneaking a quick glance over the top of the magazine as the brothers bantered back and forth as they always did. He knew Sherlock was glad his brother was here, and vice-versa.

Although he would never say it out loud, he had never seen a man so panicked as when Mycroft had raced into the hospital minutes after Sherlock was rolled in. If it hadn't been so serious John might have laughed at the sight of Mycroft running, moving surprisingly fast in his three piece suit. Red faced he had shouted at nearly five different nurses before he and John were bustled away into a separate room, maybe to stop Mycroft from scaring the other people in the waiting room.

They had sat in silence, Mycroft had paced, checking his watch every few seconds. When the doctor arrived and elucidated Sherlock's condition, John had done the talking. Mycroft had simply sat there, sleeves rolled up, his elbows on his knees. His eyes had been wide and afraid, John would have sworn his eyes were red around the edges, but he hadn't said anything, too lost in his own panic and grief to comfort the elder Holmes brother.

John grinned slightly and turned back to the magazine, listening to the hum of the brothers voices in the background.

A nurse interrupted a few minutes later, "Time for your pills Mr Holmes" She said, bustling into the room with a tray upon which a little plastic cup of pills sat.

Sherlock froze at her words. _Mr Holmes._

_I don't want to kill you Mr Holmes, I want to watch you suffer_

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, willing the voice away, Control, he had to control it.

_...No she didn't leave me...She killed herself..._

_...I lost them both that day Mr Holmes..._

_...you were wrong...you were wrong_

The words echoed around in his head, "Stop it" he said out loud, placing his hands over his ears.

"Sherlock" said John leaping to his feet and hurrying to the bedside, the heart monitor beeped, picking up the accelerated rate of its patient. John grabbed Sherlock's wrists trying to pull his hands from his face. "Sherlock what's wrong?"

Mycroft was standing now, staring down at his little brother, eyes wide.

_...Is it easier not to feel..._

_Drip, drip, drip_

"Nooo" Sherlock's hands were tearing at his head now "Stop it, just stop it."

He could hear Johns panicked voice speaking, it sounded far away as if through a tunnel.

John.

_...There's only one decent thing in your life..._

_...You push him away..._

No he needed John.

_...put him in danger..._

Was that true? It was wasn't it. John was in danger, always in danger because of Sherlock.

He could see the thumb coming down on the remote and he braced himself for the pain "Not again, not again" he couldn't survive it again. He remembered the pain, the blinding all consuming agony and he screamed in his mind. Or was it out loud, he didn't know.

There was movement and loud voices, then something thick was moving through his blood again and the darkness claimed him, the sweet, silent darkness, he welcomed its touch.

* * *

John stood back, breathing heavily, his hand trembling. He couldn't get the image out of his mind, Sherlock in pain, writhing in his twisted sheets, whatever he was reliving...well, it made John shiver. Mycroft was still frozen in place, the look on his face lost, as if he had no idea what to do.

"Why don't you go grab a cuppa" He said to the older Holmes who nodded slightly. John watched as Mycroft stared down at his brother for a few more moments reaching out to brush a dark curl from his brothers furrowed brow. John looked away guiltily, he felt as if he was invading an intensly private moment.

Then Mycroft left without a word.

John sat back in his chair, pulling it closer to the bed. It was hardly a surprise, given all Sherlock had been through. He thought back to the Doctors words, the chip they had found implanted into his nervous system. The ultimate torture device.

"What did they do to you Sherlock" he sighed reaching out for Sherlock's wrist again, it gave him great comfort to feel the beat beneath the skin.

Sherlock stirred in his drug induced sleep 'My fault' he mumbled and John started, staring up at Sherlock's face which was twisted in pain. 'Dead, all m' fault' he squirmed under the sheets and John tightened his hand around the wrist, wishing there was more he could do.

He wondered what had happened, why the murderer had wanted to get to Sherlock. What did Sherlock mean, what had been his fault?

He wondered if he would ever find out, if Sherlock would tell him, maybe if he asked? But something had happened, perhaps worse than the torture, something which had hurt and changed Sherlock in a way John didn't understand. But he had seen it in Sherlock's eyes when he thought John wasn't watching, that fact worried John more than anything else.

* * *

In Sherlock's mind the old man's face danced before his vision, a thousand of his voices speaking to him, laughing, thumb hovering over the remotes button.

_..all actions have consequences...some things can't be measured...why do you want so badly to not be human..._

But he was human, wasn't he? Perhaps not the same as John but it wasn't as though he didn't have emotion, there was a difference between having the emotion and showing the entire world that it was there.

But he had still felt everything the old man had wanted him to, even if it lurked below the surface. There was shock at the revelation of Katherine and Rose's fate, fear, confusion and the guilt. Ah yes, there was guilt, heavy, churning, guilt. It was his fault what had happened and he knew it, there was no escaping it.

But it had been a mistake...

_...people make mistakes Mr Holmes..._

But did that make it any better? No, he didn't think so, the guilt hadn't budged.

He didn't want to feel this, he didn't want this guilt, this pain, he was afraid of it, what it would do to him.

Afraid?

Something else stirred in his mind, something that was hidden behind all the old mans faces. It was important, Sherlock needed to focus on it.

_...Fear is the real mind killer..._

Suddenly all the pieces were flying together, the scattered pieces his brain had ignored in place of more pressing matters.

K, a trained killer, working for the old man. Working just for the old man?

_...Crawford..._

Who was Crawford?

Ks employer? The old man employer as well?

_...Crawford won't be happy you're dead..._

Crawford knew who he was, maybe the old man did work for him them.

But K had killed the old man

_...He was becoming an embarrassment to us..._

Us? Who was us?

_...forsaken his other work..._

What kind of work? Work done for Crawford?

Work K was involved in as well?

_Fear...life's only true opponent..._

_...The world needs more fear Mr Holmes..._

Sherlock's brain whirred to a stop, there it was, he had found it.

_The world needs more fear._

Something else was going on, something bigger than all of this, bigger than Sherlock and the old man.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, wrenching himself from the drugged stupor. He turned to John, willing him to understand, to act quickly, this was important, this was the final puzzle piece, what he had been missing all along "Get Mycroft."

* * *

**Authors note**

**Thanks again for the reviews,you guys are all amazing! This chapter was really hard to write so I hope its OK.**

**I will update pretty much every day (or twice a day...) because I'm sick at the moment and literally have nothing better to do with my time!**

**Thanks again for reading,**

**Elena xx**


	8. OASIS

John balanced the coffees precariously on the days paper as he made his way back from the hospital cafeteria, winding through the corridors, his shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor.

Having been released from the intensive care unit, Sherlock was now in a room on the eastern wing of the hospitals fifth floor. He was improving greatly and the doctor had told the intolerant patient that he would be released, all things going well, in the next couple of weeks. N_ot soon enough_ thought John regretfully.

Sherlock was bored out of his mind, stuck in the daily tedium of hospital life he had taken to terrorising the nurses, deducing and demanding things as if their only purpose was to entertain him. The hospital would certainly be glad to be rid of them.

It had been nearly 17 days since they had found Sherlock in the concrete basement of the abandoned factory. 16 nights in the hospital, of which John had spent all of them with Sherlock. He knew he could have gone home, slept in his own bed, escaped the noise and constant interruptions which came from living in a hospital. Lestrade had told him to take a break, and Sherlock had complained numerous times about Johns constant presence '_don't you have anything better to be doing?_' he had said grumpily only that morning.

Despite this, and despite the fact he would never in a million years hear Sherlock say it, John knew he was glad for his presence.

John had tried his best to keep him entertained, bringing books, crosswords and almost every board game he could get his hands on, although the latter had largely ended with arguments and John was certain there were still pieces of a broken _Snakes 'n' Ladders_ board lying scattered under Sherlock's bed. But they had both secretly enjoyed the games nevertheless, it was like old times.

Nighttime was a different story, there was something about the darkness, something which seemed absent under the comforting gaze of daylight which made Sherlock cry out, tossing and turning, writhing between the sheets as if he was reliving each agonising moment of the torture he had endured. He never managed to wake fully during these periods, despite Johns attempts to drag him back to reality. Only the sound of Johns voice seemed to reach him through the disoriented haze, the mumbled, meaningless words tumbling from his mouth and his hand grasped firmly around Sherlock's wrist were all that seemed to push the demons back down into the deep recesses of Sherlock's mind.

They never spoke about the nights. Perhaps it was better that way, Sherlock didn't make any indication he wanted to discuss it, and John didn't press the matter. It was the unspoken agreement they had come to, and it worked.

John arrived back in the room, setting the coffees down on the table next to his seat and sinking into it. Sherlock was fast asleep, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had visited that morning and it exhausted Sherlock. He was tired constantly, the restless nights providing none of the relief his exhausted mind and body demanded. Sherlock tried to hide it, but there was no disguising the bruise like circles around his eyes, or his almost humorous tendency to doze off whenever the opportunity presented itself.

John glanced at Sherlock's phone on the bedside table, noticing four missed calls from Mycroft.

After Sherlock had woken dramatically from his drug induced stupor and demanded Mycroft, John had sent a nurse running to the cafeteria to find him. Sherlock had then proceeded to inform Mycroft about his suspicions that the old man, the kidnapper, the torturer was working for a person named Crawford who Sherlock believed was involved in a larger and far more sinister plot. John had barely listened, instead he had watched Sherlock closely for any sign that his memories would claim him again and he would find himself back in the basement, back in the old mans painful clutches. The conversation had exhausted Sherlock, John could see the colour draining rapidly from his face, the bandaged hands trembling weakly.

It concerned him that Mycroft had known who Crawford was, or at least had heard the name. But it didn't really matter, Mycroft had been informed, he could deal with it from there and so John had decided that Sherlock had talked enough and needed to rest.

Mycroft had risen without complaint, promising to get in contact if he found anything out, then he had left. John had the distinct feeling he felt it very difficult to see his younger brother lying broken in the hospital bed.

Sherlock stirred, opening his eyes blearily to look up at John "took your time with the coffee" he said propping himself up in bed, wincing slightly and putting his hand to his ribs, three broken, two fractured. John had made a mental note of every single injury, knowing Sherlock had a tendency to forget about them and do something stupid like try to pick up a fallen book from the floor, forgetting about his ribs, his back, his sides, his shoulders and the more general fact that he couldn't actually stand unsupported. John had returned from the bathroom a couple of days ago to find him sitting awkwardly on the floor, unable to get up again. Typical, stubborn Sherlock had simply stuck out his bottom lip like a toddler and reported that lying in bed was boring and wanted to sit on the floor for a bit to get a better view of the x-ray room down the hall. He had uttered it with as much conviction as one could manage in a hospital gown (which wasn't actually that much)daring John to say something different.

It hadn't been worth the argument and so John had waited patiently until Sherlock thought enough time had passed for his excuse to carry some weight at which time he had demanded to be returned to his bed, as if the whole trip was a pre-planned venture.

He thrust the coffee into Sherlock's still bandaged hands.

"Are they letting me out yet?" Sherlock asked immediately

John sighed "Soon" he replied patiently as Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and drummed his bandaged fingers on a thick brown folder resting which lay on his legs.

"But I'm fine" he whined

"Is that right, try walking to the loo then" John looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Sherlock glowered at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, "I'm busy" he retorted opening the folder and disappearing behind it.

"That's what I thought" said John settling back into his seat having made his point. He glanced at the folder, his mouth falling open slightly "Is that my medical file?" He half shouted.

Sherlock surveyed him dispassionately over the top of it "Yup" he said, drawing out the word and emphasizing the 'p' in his most annoying tone, "Quite fascinating, I didn't know you fainted during a dissection at medical school"

"I didn't faint" John growled snatching the file from Sherlock's hands and putting it far out of his reach "I...slipped... and hit my head"

"It _definitely_ said fainted" Sherlock replied crossing his arms.

"How the hell did you get this anyway?"

"Nurse Gladdy, I'm her favorite patient"

"Well, we both know that's a lie"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, a look of false hurt on his face but a voice from the doorway made him pause.

"Not interrupting am I" It said.

"Oh it's you" said Sherlock turning his face towards the other wall as Mycroft strode into the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

"You could try picking up your phone" Mycroft reprimanded sternly

"I would if it was important" Sherlock said, sinking into his beds scrunching his face up at the sight of his brother.

"This_ is_ important"

"I'm surprised you're even here, I thought the elevator was broken. Did Anthea carry you up the stairs?"

Mycroft sighed

"She'll never text again" Sherlock shook his head in mock grief "Such a waste."

"John, would you give my brother and I a moment" said Mycroft, ignoring the younger's Holmes's remarks.

"John stays" said Sherlock sharply looking up at his brother defiantly.

John crossed his legs and remained in the chair.

"Fine" Mycroft's voice was firm, no longer any patience for arguing.

"What have you found out about Crawford" Sherlock asked, deducing the only reason why Mycroft would have left the office in the midst of the Egyptian elections.

"Very little" admitted Mycroft grimly "His name has been popping up around Europe for quite some time. We believe he's second in command of a criminal and terrorist network called OASIS. Although no one actually seems to know who he is or what he looks like. He's a ghost, a whispered name behind closed doors. From the way he avoids surveillance its most likely he's ex-secret service."

"So what's he up to?" asked John leaning forward in his chair. Sherlock was looking at the ceiling, his fingers steepled under his chin, thinking.

"That's the problem" scowled Mycroft "We're not entirely sure. There's been a series of disappearances of minor government and media officials in Eastern Europe over the few months that he's been linked to. But again there's been no actual sighting of him, our best guess is that he's hiding in Southern Germany."

"Why don't you bring him in then, isn't that what you people do?" said John. It wasn't a question.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Johns words "Because we don't have solid evidence linking him to anything at all, as I said, he's flying under the radar, trying to keep his hands clean. Even if he walked right into MI6 headquarters we wouldn't even know it was him, let alone be able to arrest him"

"Hasn't stopped you before" Sherlock muttered.

"Well it has this time. Whoever Crawford is he had friends in high places, if we haul him back to Britain to interrogate him it could be very dangerous to our relationships with other countries, that's a risk we're not willing to take."

"So that's it, you're just going to let him waltz around Europe with a bunch of criminals" John said, an accusing tone in his voice, had Mycroft forgotten the role he had played in Sherlock's capture?

"Of course not" Mycroft replied coldly. "We sent three of our best agents to infiltrate OASIS six months ago under deep cover. We lost all communication five weeks ago. Until yesterday. A coded fax turned up at MI6, it didn't say much except that OASIS is planning an attack on London. We have reason to believe other cities in Europe may be targeted as well."

_The world needs more fear Mr Holmes_

"So that's it" Sherlock said, lowering his hands and turning to look at Mycroft "that's why you're here Mycroft isn't it. An impending threat to British security, a faceless man who evades your every attempt to catch him and of course the fax from your uncover agents. A single piece of paper confirming your suspicions that your secret service, perhaps even your own government department has been infiltrated and compromised by an underground group of criminals."

Mycroft smiled slightly "When organisations claim to have people everywhere its usually just a figure of speech... We're putting together a team of course, but it takes time to investigate them, we have to be careful, the mole could be anyone. We have to know they still belong to us, that we can trust them. If Crawford knows or suspects something, whatever he's planning may happen sooner, too soon for us to stop it."

"But doing nothing in the mean time would be too dangerous" It wasn't a question, Sherlock spoke more to himself than his brother who nodded in confirmation.

"If OASIS is planning an attack on London then thousands of people are in danger. That's assuming London is his only target. " He paused, taking a hard breath and John looked up in surprise. Mycroft's eyes were dark, there was bitter regret in his face, a grimace as if the next words cost him great pain "Of course we had to discuss all possible alternatives"

"Of course" Sherlock was watching his brother now and John couldn't see his face.

"I tried to explain you were ill, that it wasn't appropriate to..."

"It was the only logical conclusion" said Sherlock quietly "You need someone you can trust, someone you know OASIS doesn't control and who would be of use to you in the field"

Mycroft nodded, a pained expression on his face "I'm sorry Sherlock."

There was a pause in which neither brother looked at each other, but an entire conversation seemed to take place between them, the conversation which said _'I didn't mean to involve you in this Sherlock'_ and '_its okay, I know you didn't have a choice.'_

"Hang on a minute" John said loudly interrupting the silence. Both Holmes brothers looked up in identical expressions of surprise, as if they had forgotten the third participant partial to their conversation.

John was on his feet, the pieces of dialogue falling quickly and harshly into place "If you're suggesting...if you even think for one moment that Sherlock Holmes is traipsing across Europe like in some bloody Bond movie to investigate this criminal organisation then you've got another thing coming" He spoke slowly, threat dripping from each of his words.

"Listen John, there are peo-" Mycroft began hastily

"No you listen Mycroft" He spat out the name, he was shouting now, but he couldn't have cared less about the other patients sleeping at that point " In case you've forgotten he's in the bloody hospital, He nearly died, and now...now you and your bloody people want to throw him in the field to do your dirty work. I don't think so"

"This isn't just about Sherlock, there are lives at stake now, real, innocent lives."

"Brotherly desire to keep him safe worn off has it" snarled John

There was a flash of something in Mycroft's eyes at those words, was it hurt? "Do you think I like this anymore than you? Do you think I would be here if there was another way? I tried to-"

"Well you didn't try hard enough" he shouted, had Mycroft forgotten those days in which Sherlock was missing, when they didn't know if he was dead or alive, had he forgotten how it had felt?

Somehow he doubted it, that's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt. But then why? No, it didn't matter why, there was no choice anyway, John would not allow it.

John was breathing heavily "Its not...don't even _think_ this is an option" he said quietly, his voice shaking with rage.

"John..." It was Sherlock now, he spoke slowly, reasonably

"What" John spat, rounding on his flatmate, shooting daggers from his eyes "You're choosing a bloody great time to become a patriot Sherlock"

"Its nothing to do with that" Sherlock replied, annoyed at the accusation "Crawford had something to do with capturing me, the murders, the old man, the missing people from the streets, it all comes back to him"

Sherlock's voice was determined now, but his eyes were softer, almost pleading, willing John to understand. "I need to find him."

The fight went out of John as he met Sherlock's gaze. It was more than solving the puzzle, he could see that. Whatever the old man had said to him, whatever had happened it affected Sherlock far more than he let on. It was more than the physical wounds, behind Sherlock's facade of arrogance something lurked in the darkest retreats of his eyes, perhaps it had always been there, but now sometimes John could see it, now and then, a hurt, a regret, a guilt. And it scared him.

Everyone, if they live long enough, will lose their way at some point. It is a hard, simple truth of living. One day you wake and suddenly the life you know is a stranger, its although you turned your head, just for a moment and when you looked back you found that your entire world has changed. Your day to day life suddenly unrecognisable. There is an inescapable feeling that something simply doesn't fit and there is a restlessness which accompanies that idea, an unease which can destroy you.

You find yourself alone in a dark wood, the path home, back to the world you once knew washed away. You have to choose now, falter or forge a new road.

And choosing is never easy, no matter what you choose, you're gonna wonder if you should have done things differently. There's no right or wrong, there's simply making the choice, because now you have to live with it, no matter how it tastes. And from that moment there is no going back to how things were, how you thought things were, not really. All you are truly left with is now.

Whatever reason had drawn Sherlock into the old man's path, whatever he had discovered buried deep inside himself during those days in captivity, it had changed him, thrown him out to sea and left him floating there, wondering where the life raft had gone. Somehow Crawford had become an anchor to reality, a puzzle, a point of reference to which Sherlock was drawn to. He was determined to follow this path now, there was no hint of uncertainty in the eyes John looked into. Whatever answers Sherlock needed, whatever he needed to do to fight his way back, it was this.

And there was no way John would stand in the way of that, he knew from experience that when a man was lost, he needed to plunge ahead, he needed momentum less he pause long enough to feel the inescapable crush of reality. There would be a time for talking, for dealing with these demons. There would be a time for John to grab Sherlock and tell him it was going to be okay, but that would come later.

Sherlock had decided to do this and nothing John could say would stop him, it would only push him away and John might never get him back.

There was only ever one choice.

"What do we have to do"

John spoke with a finality, a deep sense of resignation in his voice as he broke his gaze with Sherlock and turned defiantly to Mycroft, challenging him, daring him to say that John couldn't go, that this didn't concern him. But Mycroft didn't even blink as if he never doubted for a moment that John would accompany Sherlock.


	9. Split

The winding, cobbled, pedestrian streets of Croatia's seaside city, Split, were bustling in the late afternoon warmth. Street vendors shouted to nearby spectators, the cool shade of the markets drew locals and tourists alike, while the cafes, spilling onto the streets, were crammed with people laughing and chattering, chilled glasses clutched in their hands.

The ocean-side boardwalk saw the late afternoon scurry of shoppers, cyclists and skateboarders who meandered under the tall palm trees lining the wide, paved pedestrian street. The hazy outlines of barges moved lazily along the horizon while the sparkling Adriatic Sea lapped at the golden sand, sloshing at the toes of its sunbathers and nipping at the excited feet of young children.

John and Sherlock sat at a small wrought iron table under a large umbrella outside a bustling cafe just off the main waterfront street. It was cool under the umbrella, a welcome escape from the heat of the overhead sun which beat mercilessly upon them. John watched an old puppet maker across the narrow street make a small, wooden, hand-painted dog frolic through the air, dancing on its plastic stings while a young girl clapped her hands in delight, tugging on her mother's sleeve.

However, despite the relaxed atmosphere that seemed to ooze from the very heart of the city, John and Sherlock's two days in Croatia had been far from a holiday.

72 hours ago, after ignoring all advice from the doctors, (advice with which John had wholeheartedly, but silently, agreed with) they had slipped into the sleek, black car waiting outside the hospital and watching London flash past behind the black tinted windows.

The car had stopped in a back ally behind an old brick building in a rather dodgy part of town. Mycroft, waiting inside and looking distinctly out of place in his three-piece suit, had explained, with a look of disgust on his face, that recent events now required such meeting to occur in secret lest they be overheard and OASIS informed.

John had not missed the tone in Mycroft's voice at the idea that a criminal or spy might have infiltrated his own inner circle, there was anger, yes, but also a deep unease which didn't suit Mycroft, it simply wasn't right.

The reality was they knew very little about OASIS, except for its apparent omniscience, but it appeared this was far from a band of idiotic criminals with grandiose ideas, they were brilliant, sneaky and part of a web so intricate the slightest tug in the wrong place could send the whole thing quivering into action.

They had seated themselves around an old metal table covered in graffiti while Mycroft sourced a thick file from somewhere within his suit and placed it before them.

John had eyed it warily for a moment, but regardless of any reservations he may have had, the time for dissent had long passed. They had begun down a path from which they could not return.

"You're booked on the next flight to Split" Mycroft had said, his tone business like "Despite our lack of information, its our best guess as to where we might find OASIS. The city has seen an unusual amount of activity in the past few months, including a concerning number of 'holidays,' 'political visits' and 'business trips' taken by various people of interest from all across Europe. These people are the best chance we have of finding OASIS, and since we can't trust any of our agents at present- this is where you come in. The man you're looking for is called General Rykov."

Mycroft had pulled a photograph out of the file and turned it around so Sherlock and John could see it. It showed an older, fit looking man in military uniform, the picture had been taken in Turkey and John could see the faint shape of the Hagia Sofia in the background.

"Rykov was born in a small village in Southwestern Russia. He was raised in an orphanage and went straight into the military when he turned 18. By the time the Soviet-Afghan war started he was a commander of one of the army's best legions. He's a war hero, made General at 35, completely dedicated to his job and country. His own son was killed in an explosion at Kandahar and Rykov didn't even go to the funeral, it would have meant leaving his men for a day and he would never have done that."

John looked at the photograph again. He could see the hardness in the man's eyes. It was a face devoid of any shred of warmth.

"After the fall of the Soviet Union Rykov left Russia. Its no secret he sees modern Russia as an abomination. One of the worlds greatest superpowers now at the mercy of westernisation and lead by a corrupt government marauding under a weak façade of democracy. He thinks it's a disgrace, he wants to take Russia back in time, restore it to its former glory, and that's a desire in which he is certainly not alone. "

Mycroft paused, his sharp eyes fixed on the picture before them as a rat scurried across the floor behind him.

"We have good reason to think he's involved in OASIS, he may even be their leader but he has powerful friends and so we can't bring him in for questioning until we have proof. Rykov does a lot of business in Split, and somehow I don't think its a coincidence the city has simultaneously become a favourite holiday and business destination for other people of note in Europe. If Rykov is involved with OASIS then he'll lead us right to them and we can find out what they're planning before its too late."

"And if he does lead us to OASIS?" John glanced down at the picture on the table in front of them "What then?"

"Then you get any information you can, we need to know who's working for them, where their spies are, who their leaders are and what they're planning. We need hard evidence before we can contact other countries and demand they arrest what could potentially be prominent members of their societies or even their own governments" Mycrofts eyes were flashing, they were toeing a fine line and they all knew it. To accuse members of international governments and organisations of corruption and planned terrorist attacks on their neighbours was to risk overturning the somewhat fragile diplomatic peace of Europe, and yet to wait, or ensure 100% certainty before acting could produce a far more catastrophic result.

"As I said, we're putting a team together at the moment, we still have friends in Europe, people we know without a doubt we can trust but without access to our usual channels of communication and with OASIS potentially watching our every move, it will take time. Just find out as much as you can, if the fax we received is right then there isn't much time."

John glanced across at Sherlock and they exchanged a look. The unspoken instructions from Mycroft were perfectly clear.

_Do whatever it takes._

Rykov's cold eyes glared up at them from the table for a moment longer before Mycroft swept the picture back in the file and handed it to Sherlock who took it without comment. There was an odd look in Mycroft's eyes as he watched his younger brother and for a moment John had no doubt whatsoever that the man across from them was considering that this may be the last time they would see each other alive.

Perhaps that should have scared John more than it did. There was doubt at their ability to be of any use to Mycroft and apprehension at what they may find if they were, but the path they were hurtling down did not scare him and he wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with him. Was it possible he was more like Sherlock than he had thought and actually derived some form of enjoyment from such activities? No, John dismissed the thoughts as soon as they surfaced, no, it was simply back into battle. War had been dangerous, destructive, full of moments in which life or death were equally possible outcomes, but then again wasn't civilian life just the same? A different kind of danger of course, a different kind of hurt. There were less explosions and bullets, but just as much chance of your entire world crashing to the ground.

Both worlds were deceptive, dangerous and seething with hidden life. That was simply how the world worked and all one could do was get used to it.

And so they had flown direct from London to Split and began the task which had come to them, but progress had been nearly non-existent and John couldnt help but feel that their time was quickly running out.

They had been greeted upon arrival by the contact Mycroft had organised for them; a small pudgy man called Josef who had dark, eager eyes and perfectly styled hair.

Josef had assured them that Rykov would not enter the city without his knowledge and that 'his man' (which Sherlock said was in fact the hairdresser across the street) heard that Rykov was supposed to arrive that week just as Mycroft had said. But there had yet to be any sign of him.

In the meantime John and Sherlock had followed up on several rumours in the hope that they might have lead to OASIS but they had all been dead ends. Although their lack of success had hardly been surprising, given the questionable sources of information they had been relying on, John thought darkly, remembering the grizzly, old, bearded busker who frequented the dark alley behind the cathedral and had assured them that a group met in secret every week in an old room beneath the new Spaladum Arena.

Far from leading them to OASIS, what they had in fact discovered was a group of elderly men engaged in what could only be described as competitive crocheting.

It concerned John that it wasn't the strangest thing he had seen before, and it may even have been funny if not for the worrying sensation that their efforts were futile. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, they didn't even really know what they were looking for, let alone where to find it. The idea that OASIS had their base in Split was a long shot to begin with and there had been no indication that Sherlock and John were doing anything other than wasting their time.

And that's why they needed Rykov, unless they happened across someone like him who they actually had reason to believe was involved in OASIS then their exertions in Croatia would remain a futile task. But 72 hours had revealed no sign of the man and they didn't dare ask after him any more than they had lest they draw too much attention to themselves.

John glanced up from the table as a small rotund shape scurried towards the cafe and slipped into the chair across from them. It was Josef, an enormous grin on his red face. He mopped his damp brow with an enormous handkerchief he had extracted with difficulty from the pocket of his too-small shirt and then leant forward across the table towards John and Sherlock. "We got 'em" he whispered excitedly through his thick accent, " Rykov, he come now, one of me fellas tell me, he arrive at wharf soon, 'e come, you see, just like I say" he drummed his hands on the table in excitement his short legs swinging under the chair-not quite reaching the ground.

John could hardly believe it, all these days of silence, no hint or sign of anything out of the ordinary and now the man who was their best hope at solving the puzzle was about to arrive not 10 minutes from where they were sitting. He exchanged a quick look with Sherlock, whose eyes were dark and determined, Rykov was also the key to finding Crawford and John knew Sherlock would not stop until he had done exactly that.

Rising from their chairs, John peeled a note from his wallet and slapped it on the metal table. He gave a nod of thanks of Josef who squirmed with delight in his chair, he was a very enthusiastic man and took great excitement from what Sherlock and John were doing. John imagined his life as a set of eyes for hire was not quite as exhilarating as he had imagined and the call from Mycroft had been a very welcome change from the general tedium from his other life as a shoemaker.

The two men hurried down the uneven pave-stones, crossing the busy pedestrian street and heading to the humming wharfs. A large group of tourists had just arrived off one of the ferries, their scattered stack of suitcases and bags spread across the concrete as they chattered animatedly, snapping pictures with expensive cameras and complaining about the heat. They dodged through the group, John narrowly avoiding tripping over a small pink backpack carelessly discarded by its small blonde owner who giggled madly as he stumbled.

As they made their way through the hustle and bustle of the wharf as ferries unloaded cars and passengers trailed off ramps John realised that Rykov would be nigh on impossible to find, it was utter madness down there with tour operators, cab drivers and people all milling about in a seething mass.

Except John was with Sherlock Holmes. The bright grey eyes scanned the scene before him, seeing everything, missing nothing. He was like a fox, paused in the middle of a busy forest, looking and listening for his prey, separating the information from the mess.

And there he saw him, a tall solidly built man, disappearing into the back of a luxurious black car with darkly tinted windows. There was no mistaking the hard, stern face and the stiff military precision he moved with. Sherlock glanced down at John for a moment, his face still paler than it should have been, his eyes still missing the spark they usually held. But they had found him, after days of futilely combing the city for any sign, any hint of this invisible organisation and now the man behind it all was but a few yards away.

Although not for very long, the vehicle was gliding silently away from the wharf, standing out against the rabble of taxis scrambling for customers. It was disappearing down the street, once the city took him, they may never find him again. it was a risk they could not afford to make, but Sherlock was already on the move, shoving past an Australian couple dressed in bright Hawaiian shirts, he took off across the street, ducking between an antiques shop and a travel centre up a narrow alleyway, following the direction of the car. John followed, hot on his heels, but he saw at once they would have a problem, the historic centre of this city had been built for pedestrians, not cars and were a labyrinth of narrow streets devoid of any logical layout. The roads built for vehicle had been built on top forming part of the web like pattern. Following a car without suspiciously treading the same route it took was like trying to find their way through a maze in which their paths would never cross.

Already they seemed to have lost him. The alleyway which should have continued straight ahead suddenly veered off at an angle, blocked by the crumbling brick work of an old church. They ran round the corner, watched by two elderly women in floral dresses sitting under the shade of their red tile roof who shook their heads disapprovingly.

John hadn't realised how hot it was, the sweat was already dripping off him, even in the late afternoon the sun seemed to be trapped in the narrow streets, bearing down upon them, the heat lingering even in the shadows.

As they burst back onto the street they were rewarded with a glimpse of a black boot disappearing around a corner a few streets up. They dived back into the shade between two buildings, sprinting past a fruit shop and an outside restaurant at which the waiters were already spreading the tables for dinner.

A crowd of tourists. A busker playing the flute. Another cafe. Waiters with silver trays. They ploughed through them all, John shouting a hasty sorry over his shoulder as the sounds of protest rose behind him.

Sherlock had taken a flying leap in front of him, using a park bench like a spring board to propel himself up onto a low crumbling wall which rose jaggedly up to roof level. Sherlock danced along the top of the wall, graceful like a cat, he used the iron barrier of someone's tiny balcony as his final stepping stone to the red tiled roof where he disappeared out of Johns sight. He always made it look so bloody easy John grumbled to himself as he began to follow Sherlock's path, slower, heaving himself up onto the wall where a ragged piece of rock cut his hand open.

Although it took him twice as long, he had jarred both his knees, possibly wrenched his shoulder out of place, scraped his elbow and had attracted a great many stares from concerned spectators, John managed to pull himself onto the roof, rolling over the edge like a beached seal. He clambered to his feet, seeing the lithe shape of Sherlock already moving quickly ahead of him across the identical tiled roofs which seemed to adorn every building. John scowled down at the uneven path before him, the brief thought crossing his mind that he should have worn different shoes, before he took off after Sherlock.

On the roof they moved easier and faster, the red tiled highway unobstructed by anything except for the occasional birds nest or chimney. While the car stopped at lights and waited for pedestrians the two of them gained ground, John could see the black shape manoeuvring the streets up ahead, as they got closer and closer. The rooftops proving a very efficient way at traversing the labyrinth of city beneath them.

Then the car was gone, it had disappeared between two buildings ahead of them. John could see the tall shape of Sherlock pausing up ahead, and then suddenly he was gone as well, disappearing over the edge of the building. John put on a burst of speed, and chest heaving, sweat pouring from his face he reached the spot where Sherlock had disappeared. He peered over the edge. They had reached a wealthy part of town, the car had turned off the street through a tall back wrought iron gate which sat between the tall stone walls. As the gate swung shut with a resounding clang, the car stopped in the large courtyard behind the gate. Complete with fountain and hedges, the courtyard looked like it belongs in front of a palace or mansion of sorts and indeed the buildings around the courtyard were designed to fit in with the classic look of the surrounding streets, but there were touched of modernisation suggesting the place was relatively new.

John looked around for Sherlock and saw that he had jumped from the roof a couple of meters onto a wide balcony on above where the car had pulled to a stop. John started lowered himself silently down, once he was on the balcony they would be obscured from view by the stone barrier around the balcony edge. A piece of trellis John was holding detached from the wall and he fell heavily on the balcony, half landing on Sherlock and they both froze for a moment, expecting shouts and footsteps indicating that they had been discovered, but there was nothing. The courtyard appeared to be deserted and the cars running engine must have muffled any noise the fall had made. Sherlock untangled himself from John, shooting him an exasperated look before scuttling to the edge of the balcony and peeking over it.

Rykov climbed out of the vehicle, he was speaking into a cellphone, dark glasses sitting on his nose.

Two burly men dressed all in black came out of the door from the building directly opposite where John and Sherlock were hiding and took up residence in front of the black gate, standing identically with legs apart and hands grasped in front of them. Bodyguards.

John and Sherlock crouched down, not daring to look over the edge again less they be seen.

John strained his ears trying to catch the conversation Rykov was having below.

"I arrived 20 minutes ago" he was saying. "He was waiting for me. The place is confirmed for the next meeting and everything has been arranged"

There was a pause in while Rykov listened then, "I'll do it this afternoon from the office. It is better for us not to communicate. K will report to you when he returns to England."

Sherlocks eyes widened slightly and John glanced at him, K, the name rang a bell, he was involved in Sherlocks capture and torture, John remembered it being mentioned to Mycroft back at the hospital- it seemed a life time ago.

The direction Rykovs voice came from was moving away, he must have been heading for the same door the bodyguards had emerged from, he rapped twice on the solid wooden door, still speaking on the phone, but he was too far away for them to hear the words. The door swung open, and Sherlock risked a quick glance over the top of the balcony in time to see a woman standing aside to let Rykov inside. There was another man inside, sitting in a leather chair, a glass in his hand.

It was the French Minister of Finance.

Mycroft's information had been exactly right, members of Europe's governments were indeed involved. There was no question now that OASIS was everywhere.

Rykov paused for a moment before crossing the threshold, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the courtyard behind him, as if he could sense someone was watching him. John shrank back until he was lying nearly flat on the cool stone ground, even though he knew they were hidden.

He heard the door swing shut and turned to Sherlock. His face was white as a sheet, a sheen of sweat on his face that John knew wasn't from the heat. Sherlock ignored Johns look of concern and sat there for a moment, thinking.

What had they learnt? Rykov was indeed meeting with the French minister, there was no doubt about that. K had been here as well, so he was probably involved with OASIS. And there was going to be a meeting. A meeting that the elusive members of OASIS would attend, including Crawford, where they would discuss their plans and have before them all the hard evidence of their activities that Mycroft needed to bring them down.

_Ill do it this afternoon from the office_ Rykov had said. Do what? Contact the other members of OASIS, finalise the plans of an impending attack? Whatever was happening they needed to get into that office and then they needed to attend that meeting. Sherlock glanced back at John whose lips were pursed, it would appear he had arrived at a similar conclusion and he certainly didn't seem pleased about it.


	10. Knife in the Dark

For a shoemaker, Josef had in his possession a rather impressive array of things he shouldn't have. Documents, maps, blueprints, computer codes. He had the beginnings of his own secret service stockpiled in his basement, mostly as his wife refused to have it in the lounge.

After overhearing the snippet of Rykov's conversation, Sherlock had contacted Josef to get his eyes to follow Rykov so they could find out where his 'office' was. It was a relatively simple task, and within a few hours a little old lady with a shawl around her head had knocked on the door and informed them that Rykov had gone to a set of old buildings on the edge of the city which backed onto the Marjan, a hill on the peninsula which was covered in dense Mediterranean pine forest whose many trails were a favourite recreational area for the residents of Split.

It appeared the large buildings were used for various miscellaneous businesses including a call centre and the animal control office.

Rykov had disappeared into the biggest building on the end which Josef had informed them was the local marine and fisheries ministry.

"Rykovs office" Josef had said clapping his hands in excitement and rushing over to a precarious stack of papers on his desk from which he had extracted a large, poster-sized blueprint with a flourish.

"Whaat?" he squeaked indignantly in response to the looks on John and Sherlock's faces, "I know man who build them."

The other thing they had learnt about Josef was that he did indeed know everyone, and they all seemed to owe him a favour for one thing or another. There was no denying his usefulness.

"It is big building, easy to enter. Not much securities, a few camera and one guard who stay at night. I know security man, I call in favour so no problem. But guard is problem, his name Franco, he look like normal guard but he mercenary, trained killer. My friend security man at office tell me no one come in building without him knowing and if they do, he kill them. He say there two deaths this years already, police say accident but security man say he think Franco kill them for breaking into building at night. No questions asked, police look other way. Not normal thing for a Fisheries office is it?"Josef winked at them, the idea that a Maritime ministry might be used as a façade to hide the activities of a criminal organisation was clearly a dream come true for him.

"Franco sounds delightful" said John sarcastically, glancing down at the confusing blueprint spread on the cluttered table before them, "How do we get past him, distract him, get rid of him?"

"No, no, no." Josef waved his hands anxiously, "No he kill you, not other way round. But no worry, no worry, as I say, man who tell me all this is a friend, he work in security office for whole building complex"

"And he just happens to owe you a favour" Sherlock asked with raised eyebrows

Josef nodded eagerly "Yes, he give me camera control so I see inside, and he then he look other way, he no ring Franco when you break in. Then Franco go to check outside of building, you go inside, you find what you need and you get out before Franco return. Then I give camera control back to friend and no one know anything happen, no one see you and so no one kill you" Josef gave them both a big grin that was far from comforting.

"And how do we get inside, I don't suppose you happen to have the key to the front door lying around down here" John asked, half expecting Josef to pull the key out of his pocket.

Josef laughed as if it was the most hilarious thing he had ever heard "No, no, there no keys, only key cards, but no problem, no problem, I know man with key card, no problem"

"What a surprise" John muttered under his breath, wondering what sort of activities Josef did to get all of these favours.

But despite Sherlock and Johns misgivings at the ability of their small and enthusiastic contact, he came through on his word. Within a matter of hours he had the security cameras of the entrance and main hallways lit up on his many computer monitors and Sherlock had a key card tucked into his jacket pocket.

They watched as the old fashioned office emptied out in flurries as the day ended, men and women departing, probably having no idea that major criminal activities were being planned a few doors down from their offices. At last Rykov emerged from a door off the main entrance and departed, the office was now empty, except for Franco of course. John watched as he slid out of the cameras view, he was short, but wide, with thick limbs and a disproportionately small head resting on his enormous shoulders. But despite his ungraceful shape, he moved with a grace and smoothness which said this was indeed a man who took his job seriously and would kill on sight. John wondered if any of the employees at the office were suspicious of what such a dangerous looking man was doing as a guard at a seemingly innocent set of local government offices.

But then again when your boss was a man like Rykov, it was probably better not to ask questions.

* * *

Two hours later, John was standing in the enormous dark cafeteria at the southern end of Rykovs building, pressing buttons into his phone, waiting as it rang.

"John" squeaked Josef's voice from the other end "How's it going?"

"Sherlock isn't back" he said into the phone "He was supposed to meet me here 10 minutes ago, can you see where he is?"

It had been easier than John had anticipated to get in, they had waited for the call from Josef to say Franco had begun his outside round, and then they has swiped in through the cafeteria door at the back of the building.

It had been almost too easy, no spotlights turned on, no alarms rang out into the night, there was no sound of running feet or sirens in the distant. In fact it had been almost pitch black inside, not even the smallest security light.

The cameras mounted in the hallways through which they knew Josef was watching were old fashioned and it seemed unlikely they could see much in the dark anyway.

The ease at which they had entered the building had been a little disconcerting, but then again the lack of security almost made sense, the last place anyone would look for information about top secret criminal activities run by prominent and powerful members of the Western world was in a set of innocent offices in disrepair with no more security than the local butchers. Even if someone did come sniffing around they would be dealt with by the deadly gun for hire that had the place under close watch, and Rykov's obvious connections within the police would ensure no questions were asked.

John remembered Mycroft's comment back in the hospital about OASIS having people everywhere and he couldn't help but feel a little impressed. He wondered how OASIS had recruited their members and if they really were as omnipresent as Mycroft had suggested.

Once they were inside Sherlock and John had split up to search the building faster, looking for Rykovs office or any other evidence of activities taking place that weren't strictly in the interests of marine safety and preservation.

John had searched through as many rooms as he could but there had been nothing suspicious, there was simply lots of paper and general office stuff. John didn't know what he had been expecting to find, perhaps a door labelled 'Top Secret' or a room filled with guns and bombs.

Hoping Sherlock was having better luck than him, John then crept back to the cafeteria where they had snuck in and had arranged to meet on the hour so they could escape before Franco finished his outside round and started to come back through the offices again.

But Sherlock hadn't turned up and John had run Josef worried, what if Sherlock had run into Franco?

He heard the sound of computer keys tapping in the background, "He not on my screens" Josef replied quickly "Must be in room with no camera"

John rolled his eyes _typical._

"I have camera for hallways, I rewind footage, see which door he go through" Josef exclaimed as if this was the most exciting this he had ever done

"Thanks" John replied, annoyed. What was the point of making a plan in the first place if Sherlock was just going to ignore it?

Josef rewound the footage from the hallway cameras, flicking through all the wings of the enormous building until he saw Sherlock disappear into a darkly lit corridor off the main entrance. He wondered what was down there, perhaps its was time to call in a few favours and have a look around… He shook his head, _concentrate_. At least he could narrow it down for John, he went to pick back up the phone when he saw something that made his heart stop and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end "John" he snatched up the phone frantically "John we have serious problem."

Josef watched a figure stride through the main entrance, he thought for a moment that perhaps the video playback was skipping and it was just Sherlock again but the figure was shorter, broader.

It was Franco, Josef watched as the man paused in the doorway, staring around the bright entrance way as if he could sense something wasn't right. Josef saw his eyes flick at the main door just off the entrance which John and Sherlock had come through from the cafeteria. It had been left open.

Franco sniffed the air, as he could sense that the air had been disturbed by another presence, he frowned, patting his jacket pocket where his weapon was hidden, reassuring himself it was still there, and then he pushed the door slowly open and disappeared down the hallway.

Josef relayed this information frantically through the phone to John, as he tapped away on his keyboard, following Franco's movements.

"Shit" John breathed down the phone "Why's he back so bloody fast? Have you seen Sherlock come back on the cameras yet?" John hurried back across the cafeteria floor towards the hallway.

"No, just Franco" came Josef's frantic reply "You go John, you leave now"

John cursed under his breath, bloody Sherlock.

He didn't dare turn on his torch, the cafeteria was almost pitch black, it had no windows and the lack of security light meant the only source of light was the faint green flow of the swipe card slots at each end. He couldn't leave even if he had wanted to, Sherlock had the card for the exit door.

"Where is he now" he muttered into the phone, walking quickly through the maze of cheap plastic chairs and tables in the cafeteria.

"I checking now"Josef replied, fast forwarding the playback he watching the man move, disappearing in and out of doors as he began to systematically search every room. "Okay, he making his way down hall, checking rooms"

_Shit_, he was heading right for John and it was only a matter of minutes before he would enter the cafeteria and John would be trapped with no way out. "How long till he reaches the door?" he whispered into the phone swiftly.

Josef paused "No, no, you no understand, I still fast-forward, this recorded playback. This already happened."

Johns body went rigid, and at that moment he heard the card click in the door as someone came in, John stopped breathing, suddenly the darkness felt very alive around him.

In an instant he realised the only light in the room was coming from his cell phone "Keep looking for Sherlock" he whispered as quietly as he could before closing his phone, extinguishing the light.

The darkness settled around him.

He crouched on the ground, breathing as little as possible, not daring to move in case he made a sound. He was behind one of the tables but he didn't look to see where Franco was in case the movement alerted him to Johns position. He heard a rustle of clothing somewhere across the floor and suddenly he could sense a presence not too far from him. For all he knew Franco could already seen him, he waited for the bullets to rip into his back, or for the stabbing pain of a knife, but there was nothing.

In the dark, one hazy object could not be distinguished from another, where it was a chair or person, but Franco was not an idiot, he had heard a sound as he had entered and knew someone was in here with him. His instructions from his employer had always been very clear, no one entered and no one left who wasn't supposed too. Franco didn't ask questions, he would kill and the authorities would be stopped long before they thought to investigate the disappearance.

Franco started to move, systematically sweeping the room, he would find the intruder, there was no where to hide.

And John knew it.

His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Franco would hear it, giving his position away. He inched back slowly, away from the table, heading for the better cover of the long bench which stretched along most of the eastern wall.

He had only moved a couple of meters before his shoe squeaked a on the old linoleum floor. He might as well have lit up a flashing sign neon sign and shouted _Here I Am!_

A rustle of clothing suddenly came at him out of the dark, a powerful hand groping through the air. John twisted away from the shape but a hand closed around the sleeve of his jacket, the vice like grip crunching his upper arm.

He threw a fist wildly and it connected with something hard which snapped backwards under the force, there was a grunt and the hand loosened slightly, John shrugged out his coat and started to move blindly towards the door, he had no weapon, he had no way of defending himself against a trained killer. He knocked over several chairs on his way, accidentally leaving a loud tail of breadcrumbs for Franco to follow.

There was a stumble of footsteps behind him and something large hurled out of the darkness smashing him backwards where he landed heavily against the counter, smashing his head on the surface. He saw stars and slid to the ground, kicking out in front of him hoping to make contact with something, but the man was too fast there was a swishing motion and John felt a knife slice across his chest, ripping through his shirt and dragging across his chest. The man was armed. The cut wasn't deep, but he could feel blood dripping from the wound. He threw himself on the hand clutching the knife and they struggled frantically for a few moments, John trying desperately to prize the knife from Franco's hands while his opponent shifted his weight so he was crushing Johns legs.

The knife slid out of Franco's hand but before John could grab it, the vice like hands found his face, raking across his cheek before closing around his throat. The air was instantly cut off, Johns hands clawed frantically at the clamps around his neck, but they were sweaty and he couldn't find any purchase. His hands flailed wildly, trying to find the knife, but it had slid out his reach. His vision blurred as he clawed uselessly at the mans face. He could feel the blackness creeping across his mind and his armed weakened.

Then out of nowhere a dark shape appeared and Franco was thrown off him, clutching at his head in pain. John didn't waste a second, he pounced for the knife feeling the cold metal in his hands. Franco lunged after him, colliding with John again.

It was like being hit by a train.

John was thrown back again, slamming painfully on the floor, but he had still be grasping the knife in his hand when Franco had tackled him and there was an awful guttering cry as it sunk into Franco's neck. There was splatter of blood as the man let out a muffled scream like a wounded animal, clawing at the silver hilt protruding from his throat. The blood pulsed from the wound, it looked black in the dim lighting and then Franco's eyes rolled in his head, saliva and blood frothing at his lips before he pitched over forward and lay still, a dark pool slowly spreading from beneath him.

Warm hands were under Johns arms pulling him to his feet "John, are you hurt?" a voice was asking frantically, shaking him gently, it was Sherlock.

"Fine" John replied glancing down at the dead figure before them on the ground "I'm fine"

"We need to go" Sherlock said, grabbing John by the sleeve and dragging him towards the exit.

"Where the hell have you been, we were supposed to meet back here 15 minutes ago" John managed to splutter out as he stumbled after Sherlock.

"Busy" was the only answer he got. Sherlock shoved the key card into the slot, there was a buzz and the door swung open. They leapt down the steps away from the building and took off across the damp grass and towards Marjan hill.

"Christ Sherlock" panted John when they reached the cover of the trees "That couldn't have gone any worse, as soon as they find the body they'll know someone was in there. What if OASIS panic, think someones onto them and start their plan early beca-"

"They wont" Sherlock said sharply, they kept moving, not daring to stop completely, John was expecting helicopters to appear above them, shining great spotlights through the trees, but it was silent, no evidence of the crime which had just been committed. "They wont know who broke in, thanks to Josef they don't have any footage from this evening. The whole complex is low security, it could have been anyone, a group of thugs looking for something to loot. They wouldn't take such an extreme step without knowing for sure that their the break-in was someone looking for OASIS. Besides there wasn't much on Rykov's computer, he'll know that even if someone did get in there they wouldn't find out much. They're going to be more careful now, that's all."

"What _did _you find" he puffed to Sherlock as they walked quickly, Sherlock pulled a folder out of the recesses of his coat, waving it in front of him before storing it away again, a triumphant smile playing in his eyes.

"Mycroft was right" He said, his voice calm, but his eyes were dark "Whatever OASIS is planning, England is in danger, and maybe the rest of Europe. I couldn't get into Rykov's computer, it was well protected of course but he's got maps and blueprints in his office of pretty much every major landmark in Europe and detailed layouts of all the underground railways and highway systems. And then there was this" Sherlock held out his phone to John who took it, looking down at the picture Sherlock had taken. It was of a large piece of paper covered in detailed technical drawings or an object at various different angles, small slanted handwriting that John couldn't quite read was scattered across the page. But he didn't need to read it, he knew exactly what it was and suddenly his mouth was very dry.

It was the cross section of a missile.

He gaped up at Sherlock "Are those…how did they…these are long range ballistic Sherlock" he said in disbelief, the words sounding unnatural and unreal in his mouth.

Sherlock nodded grimly, their path becoming easier as the emerged from the dense forest onto one of the many trails which crisscrossed the hill. "Its possible they built them, it would hardly be a surprise if they happened to have a weapons engineer, working for them, but its more likely they've been stolen or commandeered. Whatever OASIS is planning on destroying its big, those kind of weapons can flatten a city."

"We have to get this to Mycroft" John said, the artificial light from the phone reflecting the worry etched on his face "He can send people to find the missiles, stop them being launched, surely this is enough evidence for action to be taken"

Sherlock frowned "Perhaps but its not much to go on, what their targets are, what OASIS is actually planning, we're still in the dark John, we need more information, we need to get into that meeting- and I know exactly where it is" He smiled slightly, the game was coming to its crescendo, Sherlock knew it, he knew this path would take them right to Rykov and to Crawford and it excited him, excited him and worried John.

Sherlock nodded down at his phone, still clutched in Johns hand and John swiped his hand across the screen revealing to reveal the next picture.

It was a building perched on the centre of a large hill on the edge of a lake. It was someone's house, although perhaps castle was a more appropriate word. It was a mass of towering white stone with the signature red tile roofs of most structures in the region. It had three of four various sized towering wings which were attached to the multi-story main building.

The huge flat topped hill it was situated upon was densely covered in forest, the castle rising from the centre so it could overlook the crystal lake before it.

"Not really going for the subtle look are they" John remarked as he handed the phone back to Sherlock, leaves crunching beneath his feet.

"It belongs to an Austrian businessman, perfect place to meet. No one would suspect, or dare accuse him of using his property to facilitate the illegal activity of criminal organisations"

"So how do we get in?" John asked reluctantly "I'm guessing we cant just waltz up to the gates and ask to have a look around inside just in case there happens to be a super secret meeting of influential European figures plotting attacks on their own countries."

"Lets hope Josef has another friend who owes him a favour"


	11. Exposed

General Rykov sat at his desk in the hotel room, back straight, his face emotionless and blank as he watched Sherlock and John break into his office.

What Sherlock and John had not known was that Josef's information was wrong. The office may have looked minimal security from the outside, but that was all part of the cover. Barbed wire fences, watchdogs and advanced security technology would have drawn unwanted attention, but OASIS would hardly leave the office of one of their highest in command open to just anyone. As soon as John and Sherlock opened the door a message went straight to their security headquarters and a live stream opened to Rykov immediately- waiting for instructions. The old fashioned looking cameras in the hallways were actually the most advanced software one could get their hands on-illegally of course, such equipment was not available to the general public. It had scanned both the mens faces and was searching international databases in a matter of seconds while movement sensors and thermal imaging cameras provided constant data on their movements in the building. on the intruders.

Rykov had watched as one man attempted to hack into his computer, and as Franco was killed (he could have intervened and saved his mercenary but once OASIS put their plan into action his usefulness would expire anyway ad he would become just a loose end.)

Rykov sat with his hand hovering over a small button on the edge of his custom laptop, one press and the men would be killed and it would all be over. Rykov would have preferred it that way, he did hate loose ends and these men were proving to be rather annoying.

Rykov knew they had been asking questions around the city, but he also knew they weren't agents because he had men in every secret service in Europe. These men were different, clearly someone had sent them, he had been watching them the moment they had stepped of the plane from London. His surveillance at the airport was top notch, but then again it was everywhere, Crawford ran a tight ship and Rykov appreciated that. He liked precision.

So he let the two intruders escape with the limited information they had gained, he would see who they reported to, who they were working for, what else they knew and then he would decide if they were a threat or not.

It would be dangerous to kill them without being sure they hadn't jeopardised OASIS's plans, Crawford would not be pleased.

Rykov moved his hand off the button, no he wouldn't push it, the men would live, for now.


	12. The Way Inside

Sherlock and John wound their way back through the twisting streets of Split, avoiding the main roads, moving quickly.

But despite these precautions John felt as though he had a large target painted on his back, it seemed every footstep behind them, every door opening onto the street, every voice echoing up the alleyways, every car which passed, every siren ringing out in the distance was Rykov's men, ready to swoop down upon them. The game was up, it had to be, there would be a blockade around the corner, a helicopter hovering overhead, guns trained upon them.

But somehow they made it safely back to Josef's house unhindered and alive, slipping in through the back door and locking back the outside world.

However, the scene they returned to was hardly the peaceful respite John and Sherlock both needed after the events of the evening. Josef was in hysterics, it seemed there had been no security camera in the cafeteria and after watching Franco and Sherlock disappear from the corridor after John, he had assumed them to be dead.

The look on his face when he had seen John and Sherlock appear through his back door had been almost comical, although certainly not as hilarious as Sherlock's face when the small pudgy man had burst into tears and pulled them both into a bone crushing hug. John had patted him awkwardly on the back while Sherlock looked almost scared, like a deer caught in the spotlight, not quite sure what to do.

However, having convinced their contact that they really were alive, it was back to work as unfortunately the list of favours owed to Josef did not seem to include being smuggled them into an Austrian businessman's private castle in which a top-secret meeting of a dangerous criminal organisation was about to take place in.

John was almost disappointed.

Whilst Josef did not have a 'contact' in the castle, what he did have was access to an excessive number of books about Croatian castles and huge (confidential) database of Split's employees which they began to comb through.

Their best chance was cleaning or cooking staff that a place of that size would surely have. Such employees would have keys, know the layout of the building and their vehicles would presumably be able to enter without suspicion.

But look as they may, there was no indication of, or records about any such staff being employed at the castle.

It had been a long shot and they all knew it, the idea that OASIS would allow such a hole in the intricate web of their organisation was almost laughable.

They continued to pour over the books anyway, John didn't know what they expected to find, this was no spy movie, there was no secret passage, no magic door, no master key. There was only one, heavily guarded entrance and to pass unseen through it would be utterly impossible.

Josef had sent the information they had found at Rykov's office to Mycroft on a secure line, but it was one ended and as expected there had been no response. Given the fact Mycroft's office had been infiltrated by an unknown agent of OASIS the silence was no surprise, but it left Sherlock and John utterly in the dark.

They had no idea what was happening back in London, a trained team could be on their way at this very moment to bring down Rykov, plans may have been set in motion, governments informed, trusted allies on the move, or maybe Mycroft had never even received their message at they were going into this alone.

Whichever outcome eventuated, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the three men that waiting for an unlikely response from Mycroft before acting was a risk they could not afford.

Josef had printed Sherlock's pictures taken in Rykovs office and a glossy copy of the missile drawings lay on top of his messy desk, a silent reminder of what they were up against.

As if they could forget.

The hours snailed by, the tedium of their work broken only by Josef's ridiculous need to fill every silence with incessant chatter. After failing to enthuse either Sherlock or John about interesting castle facts, he had taken to recounting a number of tales from his years on a fishing boat off the coast of Greece, which all seemed to centre on the time Josef apparently fell off the boat and was nearly throttled to death by a giant squid before fighting it off using a rare, but effective form of martial arts.

John didn't even bother commenting on that one, instead focussing on unsuccessfully trying to tune out Josef's eager voice before Sherlock finally glanced up and managed to silence the small man with a single, foul glare.

"We could parachute in" John said several hours later, rubbing his eyes tiredly and at this point only half joking. "Or swim under the edge of the hill and tunnel our way in with shovels."

Sherlock looked up suddenly, a gleam in his eye "Excellent John" he breathed. He tossed the book aside he had been flicking through and rubbed his hands quickly through his dark curls, dishevelling them.

John looked up in surprise he could never quite tell with Sherlock whether he was about to be congratulated or ridiculed.

It was most likely the latter.

"You serious?" he replied dubiously "I was joking, we don't have the equipment Sherlock, and besides it would take years to actually-"

"Tunnels John" Sherlock interrupted as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We know the castle is a modern rebuild, no more than thirty years old, and yet the external stonework and brick looks as if it's about to fall apart, purposefully aged to look as if it was constructed in the 18th century. Now why would a wealthy businessman use such a prime piece of real estate for something that appears derelict from the outside? Because the only way he could get a permit to build was to reconstruct a replica of the castle that once stood there. People like that sort of thing you see. Now a project that size would need proper approval and yet in all the files there's no record of a site evaluation for laying groundwork, which means there was already something there for him to build on- so he used the original foundation-obviously. Look at the picture John, its on a steep hill with the lake on three sides, viewpoints from every angle; this was more than a castle it was a fortress. Sieged over five times while it was standing and yet it only changed hands once."

Sherlock tossed a glossy paged book in front of John, he glanced down at the miniscule writing not really reading it- he would take Sherlock's word for it.

"Sieges could take months, they would have needed supplies; food, clothing, fresh water and to dispose of their sewage and rubbish to prevent disease. "

"We're not crawling up through an old sewage tunnel" John interrupted firmly, scrunching his nose up at the thought.

"Of course not" Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, "There must have been another way in and out of the castle, supply routes as well as secret access to the lake for fresh water. The tunnels would have been filled years ago of course but if we can find the entrance then we might be able to clear it with small range explosives and get in unseen."

John looked up in time to see Sherlock and Josef grinning at each other in a rather concerning way, it would appear the thought of using explosives to blow open the entrance of a 300 year old passageway was a rather exciting development.

John sighed. So there were secret tunnels and he was going to sneak into the meeting of a huge criminal organisation through them with the assistance of two excitable pyromaniacs.

_What could possibly go wrong_? John thought grimly as Josef and Sherlock began scribbling down the things they would need to make the explosives. He wondered if it should have surprised or concerned him that such things were part of Sherlock's knowledge, but he was simply grateful explosives hadn't formed any major part of Sherlock's experiments at Baker Street. _Yet._

At 4am John had collapsed onto the bed in Josef's spare room while the explosives were being assembled in the other room. It seemed only seconds later he caught the whiff of gunpowder and Sherlock was shaking him gently awake. It was still dark outside as they clambered silently into Josef's car and began the long drive to the castle.

Several uneventful hours later they had arrived on the ridgeline above the lake that the castle was perched upon.

After pouring over old (and often conflicting) descriptions of the original castle and various maps of the area and of the lakes changing water level they had decided upon the most likely area in which to search for an old and most likely sealed passageway into the castle.

They all knew that their chances of finding anything out there were slim regardless of the fact that even if they did find a tunnel it was possible more than the entrance had been blocked; the whole thing might have caved in for all they knew.

Common sense and logic dictated that even trying to search for such a thing was a waste of time, even if they did happen across a convenient tunnel, the whole thing was probably caved in, or might lead no where of use. There was no way of knowing, they were working with very little and they all knew it, but none of the three men mentioned anything of the sort out loud.

The simple fact was that in light of what they had found in Rykov's office, it felt right to be doing something, anything. Surely a shot in the dark was better than doing nothing, even if the result was the same, it made a difference that they had tried.

Didn't it?

John tried to ignore the doubts circulating in his mind and instead concentrated on the task at hand.

The road to the ridgeline was rough, overgrown, built decades ago for something which had never eventuated and then been forgotten about. They had stopped to move tree trunks and rocks, Josef's car struggling to the top, protesting loudly at the unsealed and steep path it was being forced up.

Had either man had time to enjoy it, they would have noticed that the summit revealed a stunning view of the entire valley below. The lake lying still in the calm morning silence, the lush, rolling forested hills stretching as far into the distance as the eye could see, and of course the single, stony dwelling on the edge of the lake, rising majestically from its green surroundings.

Josef began to unload their gear in preparation for their exploration of the forest below when John heard a faint rumbling in the distance. He looked up, squinting through the glare of the sun to see a cloud of dust rising above the trees several kilometres back the way they had come.

Sherlock had seen it as well and John looked up at him in concern- perhaps it was a tourist, curious or lost, investigating the unmarked road.

But there was too much dust for just one vehicle.

John felt his pulse quicken and he glanced at Josef. Although the small man hadn't appeared to have noticed the approaching vehicles, we was fidgeting nervously, dark eyes downcast and face tense.

This, of course, had not escaped Sherlock's notice who rounded on the small man at once, his eyes burning "What did you do" he snarled grabbing Josef by the shoulder and shaking him slightly.

Josef looked desperately at John, his eyes pleading but John crossed his arms defensively and pursed his lips.

Josef squeaked in panic, looking desperately for escape like a caged animal "I'm sorry" he cried inching back from Sherlock so his back was pressed against the door of his car "They know, they know the minute I has security cameras through my computer, they trace it to me, I not know they could do it, I swear, I swear! They come to my house while you at offices, they make me promise to tell them what we up to. I try to refuse, but I can't there a man, he- "

"Crawford" said Sherlock releasing Josef's shoulder in disgust.

John remembered how hysterical Josef had been the night before when they had returned from Rykov's office.

So he hadn't been concerned about Sherlock and John after all, Josef had known perfectly well that they were alive, that they were heading back to his house at that moment.

He had known everything and he had sold them out to the enemy.

"They have my family" Josef sobbed wringing his hands desperately "My wife and daughter, he kill them unless I help. He worried, they want to know what you know, who you work for, maybe you just tell them and they let you go."

"Oh you think so," John said dangerously, rounding on Josef "you think they'll just ask us a few questions and then let us hop back on a plane to England."

He paused, another piece of information clicking into place" You didn't contact Mycroft did you, he doesn't know what we found at Rykov's office?"

It wasn't a question.

Josef gave him another pleading look and John cursed, kicking the car's tyre.

So there was no one coming, they were on their own.

"What do we do?" he hissed at Sherlock

"Nothing" Sherlock replied, his face unreadable "Thanks to our _trustworthy_ contact they know we were in Rykov's office which means they know what we're looking for. They could have killed us, they knew exactly where we were, but they didn't. So they wanted to see who we'd try and contact with the information. Now they know who sent us. They'll want to find out how much Mycroft knows- if their plans have been jeopardised."

"And then what?"

"Then we're a loose end"

There was no point trying to run, there was nowhere to go.

"At least we have a way inside" John said bitterly, assuming of course that they weren't about to be shot where they stood.

The dust got closer, he could hear the engines now, rumbling, echoing sinisterly around the valley.

Five big army-like vehicles appeared around the corner a moment later, great lumbering vehicles with huge tyres and deafening engines. They formed a loose circle around Josef's car and several men in black combat outfits jumped out, guns on shoulders.

A large man slid from the driver's seat of the nearest vehicle, he strode through the settling dust with a hint of swagger, he had a military buzz cut and a very forgettable face.

It was K.

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you again," he said to Sherlock in an almost friendly voice, nodding slightly at John in greeting.

"Nostalgic I guess" Sherlock replied, giving his torturer a murderous smile.

"Ah, my little rat" K wandered casually over to Josef who was still cowering beside his car. He towered over the small man for a moment, enjoying the fear etched across every inch of Josef's face.

"Please" Josef squeaked " I did everything you said, please my family"

K stared him down for a few more seconds before he turned and nodded at one of the faceless gunmen behind him. John heard a vehicle door open and shut, then two sets of light footsteps stumbled closer before a pretty young woman with long black hair and a green-eyed girl no older than 7 were trust into the circle, rushing into Josef's arms. The little girl was crying, a dark bruise still forming on her forehead. She clung to her mother's arm as the woman buried her face in her husbands shoulder, mumbling words John couldn't hear. He looked away as the family reunited, feeling as though he was invading their privacy.

Josef glanced over his wife's shaking shoulder to meet Johns eyes, his wide face was apologetic, his eyes wide, begging for forgiveness.

As much as he didn't like it, John could understand why he had betrayed them, a man would do anything to protect the people he loved. He had chosen his family over everything else and you could not truly fault him for that.

Unfortunately that decision, one part betrayal, one part loyalty, would be one of the last choices Josef would make.

John noticed too late that K, watching the reunion in disgust, had pulled a gun from his belt.

He twirled it twice through his thick fingers with a gracefulness that didn't quite suit and then before John could even think, before anything could be done, three shots were fired in fast succession, K didn't pause, he didn't need to.

All three bullets met their targets with unfaltering accuracy.

Still locked in each other's embrace the family fell to the ground. Dead.

Blood dripped down the side of the car.

The little girls face was turned towards John, her blank eyes open in surprise, a trickle of blood moving from the hole planted perfectly in the centre of her forehead.

K spat on the dusty ground in disgust, "I hate rats."

He twirled the gun once more and replaced it in his belt. He nodded at his men again, and this time someone grabbed John roughly from behind. He had just enough time to see Sherlock moving towards him before a hand shot out of nowhere, the heel of someone's palm driving into his face.

It was like being hit by a brick wall. John felt every bone in his body rattle. White light exploded behind his eyes and then he was out.


	13. A New World Order

"Open your eyes John, General Rykov would like to speak to you," the words came as if from across an ocean, John groaned and tried to lift his head. He was sitting on a hard wooden kitchen chair, his arms pinned behind his back. The whole side of his face felt bruised and swollen, and the metallic taste of blood was in his mouth. He opened his eyes and waited for the world to gradually slide into focus.

They were in a large room, the intricate brickwork on the walls indicated that he was indeed inside the castle. There was a rich crimson rug on the floor, exquisite paintings lined the walls and a great stone fireplace stood cold in the corner. Sherlock was tied to a chair next to him, his chin resting on his chest, the dark curls hanging over his face, a trickle of blood was dried on the side of his head. His eyes were shut- still unconscious.

Rykov was sitting in a high backed armchair in front of the fire place, watching John with what might have been curiosity or distaste, or perhaps a bit of both. K was standing slightly behind the chair, his eyes vacant as if he was thoroughly bored by the entire situation.

Up close Rykov looked exactly like the photograph Mycroft had showed them- his face was devoid of any shred of warmth, his eyes cold and cruel.

"You've been rather an inconvenience" he spoke slowly, venom dripping from each word.

John shrugged; he wasn't intimidated by men like him "Occupational hazard" he replied dryly.

Rykov pressed his lips together tightly. Not quite a scowl, but a hundred miles from a smile.

"So you broke into my office, killed my guard and escaped with a file before the police arrived. Rather a lot of effort to discover the finer details of the little dinner party I'm having there tonight, if you wanted an invite you should have just asked."

Rykov was testing him, trying to discover how much he and Sherlock knew about OASIS and their plans, but John wasn't fooled.

"I hope you don't treat all your guests like this" John replied shaking the handcuffs that were restraining his hands painfully behind his back.

Rykov brought the tips of his fingers together, surveying John over them if deciding what to make of him.

"Dr. John Watson" he said slowly, somehow managing to make each word an insult "Strange that the British government should send the two of you, but I guess they had limited options. Oh yes-" he continued, catching the look on Johns face "I know exactly who you're working for, your leaders have been suspicious of Crawford and myself for many months now, it made sense for us to have eyes on the inside. I must admit my man didn't know the two of you had been sent, quite sneaky that, I'm almost impressed but then again it didn't take much for Josef to sell you out, you never should trust a foreign contact, they're always bad news. Not that it matters anyway, you haven't managed to report to your leaders, and they have nothing to prove we're up to anything dangerous at all. In fact the whole thing has been easier than we ever imagined. That's the problem with modern diplomacy isn't it, all these countries tiptoeing around each other, too afraid to question what's going on inside their neighbours borders less they upset their precious trade links."

Rykov smirked slightly, there was an air of authority about him, an arrogance as if he knew he was utterly in control and he loved it. The General glanced at the unconscious figure of Sherlock before giving K a swift nod.

The assassin strode over to Sherlock, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder, Sherlock's head lolled weakly on his chest and K raised a giant hand, slapping it across Sherlock's face with force. The detective's eyes flew open and K smiled. "Just like old times Mr Holmes although I'm surprised to see you out of the hospital- perhaps I should have killed you after all."

"No" Rykov interrupted absentmindedly "Crawford wanted him alive...god knows why, but that doesn't matter now, you two have been a very annoying distraction, although your work has been ultimately futile. It would appear you haven't managed to pass on anything new to your government and now its too late. You will both die and we will continue unhindered."

"Is this the part where you reveal your entire evil plan and we pretend to be impressed?" Sherlock drawled in the best tone of boredom he could manage.

Rykov laughed "I'm rather disappointed you didn't figure it out Mr Holmes, you're clearly not as good as they say"

Sherlock looked up "Oh I wouldn't go quite that far"

John stared at him at disbelief, it was typical of Sherlock, tied to a chair before a mad man with an assassin as a henchman and now he wanted to show off. John glared at Sherlock, trying to warn him this was dangerous territory without speaking out loud. Sherlock caught his eyes and gave the smallest of shrugs before fixing his brilliant eyes intently on Rykov. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a single word out, fast as lightening K had hit him hard again around the face, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing in the otherwise silent room.

John struggled against his bonds, the handcuffs digging painfully into his wrists.

"That will do" Said Rykov calmly, raising his hand to K and fixing his cold eyes on Sherlock, "What I meant to say is that I have neither the time nor interest to listen to your deductions Mr Holmes. You and Dr Watson have made the mistake of becoming my enemy, I must tell you this is something you will both thoroughly regret. I imagine you have not forgotten the device K planted in your nervous system when you were captured Mr Holmes; it was my invention and I was only too happy to lend it to such good use. The old man told me it was the only time during your captivity that you screamed, it's a terrible shame I missed it for that's a sound I should very much like to have heard."

Rykov smiled coldly, a glint in his eyes.

"But none of that matters now does it? I'm afraid our association has now reached its conclusion. All you really need to know is that you have failed to decipher our plans and thus you have failed to make any difference whatsoever. All your efforts for nothing, perhaps this is a lesson that attempted heroics seldom end well for those involved. You will die now, I cannot say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I am sorry that you will not be around to see what happens next," he licked his lips in delight, the thought of OASIS's plans being carried out clearly bringing him some sadistic form of pleasure.

Sherlock shrugged as if he wasn't bothered in the slightest and Rykov's eyes flashed in anger. It seemed the lack of admiration or fear in either of his captives' faces was a source of great discontent to the man.

"Perhaps you should be more afraid Mr Holmes, for what is about to occur is the unravelling of the entire civilised world as you know it." Rykov paused dramatically as if he expected a gasp of awe, or perhpas a round of applause to follow his words.

Neither occurred.

Instead Sherlock raised a single eyebrow in great contempt "Oh is that so?" he said as if such a statement was the most tedious thing Rykov could have said.

The General sat forward, his fists were clenched now, his jaw tight "I will change the world Mr Holmes, what man can say that? I began my life with nothing, my parents abandoned me, and my foster parents did not care for me. School was dull; perhaps you would understand Mr Holmes, the tedium, the bullies. The world was a cruel place. I remember when I was eight I sat outside my school in the snow after being cornered by bullies. I had a broken nose and two cracked ribs, in that moment I hated the world more than I can say and so that day I promised myself that one day I would change it, one day I would get my revenge and people would fear me, fear the sound of my name."

"Made lots of friends in the sandbox did you" asked Sherlock, his eyebrow still raised. Rykov ignored him, too caught up in the flow of his story

"Then I joined the military, there is something about it isn't there Mr Watson, the discipline, being part of a team, the chance to serve ones country, to fire a gun, to take a life. There is no greater feeling of power than to see the light in a mans eye extinguish by your hand-its almost like playing god is it not? And it was the first time I had respect, I was good at what I did and my men would have followed me anywhere. We were proud, the military, the backbone of the most powerful country in the world- the great Soviet Union. It seemed nothing could stop us, but then in a matter of years our great Union had collapsed. That was not necessarily the end, but I left, do you know why?"

"You got sick of the cold?"

"Because my Russia was dead," Rykov almost shouted the words, his voice echoing around the stone room. "Westernisation: its like a disease, it seeps through the cracks of any state and destroys it from the inside out. Piece by piece, culture, religion, diversity, values, practices, languages, it takes them all. The very identity of a nation replaced by the spiritually corrupt and politically unimaginative western world. It disgusts me!" Rykov spat the words out, fury etched in his face. "And I remembered my hate of the world, I remembered that day in the snow all those years ago and the promise my eight year old self had made that the world would suffer by my hand." I remembered how I promised to myself all those years ago that I would not sit by and let it continue on without my intervention."

Sherlock yawned loudly "I know you said you were going to kill us, I didn't realise that meant you were going to bore us to death"

Smack, this time K's fist found Sherlocks mouth. Blood dripped from his lips and Rykov smirked, his cold eyes drinking in the sight of the blood as if it gave him great pleasure.

"Do you know of Hobbes and Machiavelli?"Rykov continued, watching Sherlock while K hovered nearby "They were the pioneers of an idea we call Realism, it was the lenses through which they saw the world, through which they watched how countries acted. I like Realism Mr Holmes, it is impervious to idealism or deluded moralisation. To the Realist the world is full of greed, competition, selfishness, arrogance and an insatiable appetite for power. Nowadays we don't use terms like that, we like to think the world has grown up, the people better, the governments less corrupt, the world more peaceful. But its all a lie you see, the façade of civilised diplomacy we hide behind.

"No state, no people are truly happy with what they have, they all want more, it is the human condition to fight, to claim what others have, and why shouldn't we? The civilised world tries so hard to behave, with all this diplomacy and cooperation and peace talks, but why? There is no outside spectator, no one to judge or praise these false attempts, so why bother, why not revert to our more animalistic tendencies? Because our way of life forbids it, for all our freedom, we are trapped in a system, in an establishment that does not allow true transformation. People want change Mr Holmes, they want to see if the grass is greener, they want to taste freedom from governments and civilisations, from jobs and money, from laws and the weight of expectations. All they need is a chance to do it, an opening somewhere in the strict confines of modern life. I am no villain Mr Holmes, all OASIS and I wish to do is give the good people of Europe this opportunity, and it just so happens that the best way to rebuild is from the chaos and anarchy of total destruction.

"So what brings chaos and destruction Mr Holmes? It is anger; anger and fear. Such emotions are no friends to rationality, when people panic they revert to their more basic instincts-survival, at any cost. This is what I want, for someone watching, it is a beautiful sight, an orchestra of fire, death and turmoil, spilling from one country to another like dominoes. Europe is a system, an alliance built on the facade of friendship and common interests, it is not as strong as it appears, all it needs is a little push and the entire thing will topple. The causes, the underlying resentments and old grievances are all there already, waiting to rear their ugly heads. It works like this you see-" Rykov was enjoying himself now and he didn't bother trying to hide it.

"You know about our missiles of course, rather a stroke of luck acquiring those I must say. They will be released tonight, Rome, London, Paris, Berlin. Four missiles, four targets, they will go straight into the major landmarks of the four cities and in one fell swoop the most recognisable structures of the European world will be destroyed. That is the starting bang, the beginning of the race and from there the true fun begins. We have our people everywhere, poised, ready to act. The missiles will be their sign, the fiery delight in the sky signalling them to begin their work. And that work will be to cause fear. There will be explosions in hospitals, rest homes, churches and schools. Documents will arise showing corrupt governments, illegal arms deals, secret war talks, the financing of terrorism. Officials will be murdered; others will run, abandoning their people. Almost overnight the venerable and weak will be dead, parents will lose their children, churches will burn, the halls in which communities gather will crumble, the museums in which they jealously guard their histories destroyed. And all the while the governments will disintegrate from the inside, falling apart one by one. It will be as if God has passed his judgement on the whole of Europe.

"This is the true face of terrorism Mr Holmes, far more pernicious than mere murder, its ability to cause fear at the most fundamental level is the push people need to take action. In the haze of desperation and the want for revenge they will forget what they used to stand for, they will question the values upon which they have built their lives. Then they will revolt, there will be uprisings in the streets, the civilised people of Europe will loot, murder and steal, they will be violent and greedy and their whole world will crumble around them, their past eradicated, their future uncertain. And then they will look for a way out, they will look for a new system, a new way of life and the new world order will begin.

"But it wont stop there, oh no, that will be just the beginning. An idea Mr Holmes, that is all we need, you've seen it before, its happening as we speak in the Arab Spring, the idea of a better way of life and the motivation given by seeing another state accomplish it. You cannot kill an idea, there's no way to make it go away and it will spread, there are many countries out there, many people dissatisfied, being let down by their ways of life. But they don't know what to do, how do you undo the system that has always stood? With the idea that change is possible, that whole civilisations can fall and unrestrained human nature can live once more.

"Thousands are going to die I'm afraid. Men, women, children. But I will save so many more, I will give them the chance to start anew, the old systems, establishments, the old governments, the old way of life, it'll all be gone, torn down and that's the only way to start again you see, with a blank slate. Who knows what kind of phoenix will arise from the ashes, but it will be a spectacle to watch, to see what people do when the bonds from their previous life have been sliced away."

"You're mad," said John in disgust, turning his head as if he could not bear the sight of Rykov.

The general rose from his chair and strode to where John sat bound; his cold hands grabbed Johns chin roughly, pulling his face back so they were almost nose-to-nose.

"You think so do you?" he whispered menacingly "you think I'm a mad man with some ridiculous grandiose plan to change the world?"

John stared back at him, right in the eyes, he wasn't afraid "Yes."

Rykov's lips formed a tight line and he released Johns chin, his sharp fingers leaving red marks.

"Perhaps you weren't listening Dr Watson, the world will do all of this of its own accord, OASIS will simply provide the little nudge it needs and I will watch as the show unfolds. Besides, you think I am alone in desiring change, in desiring true freedom from the constructs of the civilised world. OASIS has people everywhere, is that not why you were sent, because we had infiltrated your government and secret service. You'd be surprised how many people have joined us, from the average middle class family to the highest authorities in the states; we have allies everywhere, what does that say about how mad I am? There is no man without a price, no man who cannot be brought or persuaded. You've already met some of them, the old man who captured you Mr Holmes, he was one of us. Crawford told him how to entice you in, what your pressure points were and in return he became a valued member of our organisation- well until his thirst for revenge got the better of him."

Rykov was standing now, pacing the room, his eyes sparkling with the passion and determination he had for his plan, it animated him, brought his stiff face and dark eyes to life. "The pieces of the puzzle have been there all along, you have simply failed to put them together. The murder-suicides the old man used to attract your attention, they were committed by a child were they not, a teenager taken from the streets and recruited by the old man for our organisation. Offer a homeless child a way out, a home with food and clothing and schooling. They get off the streets and they are happy, their lives have turned around, and grateful, so grateful they will do anything for us- including planting something in their own school, a mysterious package or a bag. They don't ask questions, they simply act and no one suspects a thing, no one knows their own student has put a bomb in the basement. Clever don't you think Mr Holmes, there are potential allies everywhere you see, if you know where to look?"

"If you want a round of applause you'll have to take the handcuffs off," Sherlock replied, his voice dripping in contempt. K raised a hand again but Rykov shook his head and glanced at his watch.

"We're done here," he said loudly moving towards the door "They didn't know our plan and they haven't told their government anything, Josef made sure of that. OASIS is safe and there is no further need for them. Our guests will be arriving very shortly, wait until the meeting is over then shoot them both and throw them in the lake"

"Didn't Crawford want to talk to him" said K inclining his head towards Sherlock who looked up at the mention of Crawford's name, a strange look in his eyes.

Rykov shrugged as he pulled the door open, "Who cares, he's busy at the moment anyway" He turned back to face his two captors, a small grin on his face "Well this has been… interesting. I'm sorry you'll miss the show." he shook his head in mock sadness, before slamming the door shut behind him.

K smiled and pulled out his gun.


	14. Escape

There were a few moments of silence in which K watched them both, a small grin playing at the corners of his lips before he sauntered over to Sherlock "Shall we pick up where we left off" he taunted, running a finger down Sherlock's pale cheek while Johns stomach churned in disgust.

"Get your filthy hands off him" he growled, squirming in his chair, futilely trying to pull his hands from the cuffs, the sharp metal digging painfully into his wrists.

K turned to smirk at John, a sinister look lurking in his dark eyes.

That was his first mistake.

As soon as the assassin turned his head, Sherlock pulled his leg free from the ropes he had managed to loosen during Rykov's speech and delivered a hard blow to the back of K's knees with his heel. The man gasped in surprise, falling to the ground heavily. As he twisted angrily to see his attacker, eyes flashing, Sherlock swiftly rose from the chair so it hung off his back by the handcuffs and then in a move so fast John almost missed it, he spun on the spot so the chair shattered across K's head, knocking him out cold. Shaking off the broken remains of the chair, Sherlock then gracefully stepped through his handcuffed hands so they were in front of him. He grabbed the keys from K's pocket, awkwardly fiddling it around one handed before there was a satisfying click and the cuffs fell off.

He hurried around behind John "Are you alright?" he asked anxiously as John felt the cuffs snap open.

"Yeah fine" he replied, rubbing his wrists and unknotting his feet "You?"

Sherlock nodded glancing down at the unconscious form in front of him.

"Suppose we should do something with him" John said reluctantly, thinking a bullet was probably the best solution.

"Too loud, someone might hear," Sherlock replied as if he had read Johns mind.

The two men stared down at K again, his arms and legs splayed on the thick rug awkwardly, his mouth was open slightly, drooling on the carpet. They glanced at each other and John sighed, bending to grab K's feet while Sherlock grasped the assassin's shoulders. They half dragged half carried him across the floor towards the tall cupboard next to the fireplace. Gagged and bound they shoved K unceremoniously through the door where he slumped against a broom, his face resting against an old ironing board and his legs curled beneath him in what looked like a supremely uncomfortable yoga position. They pulled the door shut and John snapped the handle off so it locked.

"What now?" he asked turning to Sherlock who picked up K's gun from the carpet, slipping it into his jackets internal pocket.

"We need to get a copy of OASIS's plans to Mycroft, the location of the bombs, the intended targets. If Mycroft's people can get it to the right places fast enough we might be able to stop it, buy us some time to get to Crawford and Rykov"

"And the missiles?" John asked, he could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"If they never get launched the signal to begin never gets sent to OASIS's network. He'll have a back up plan of course, some other way of communicating to them without the missiles, but that gives us sometime to warn the targets, disable the bombs, arrest the members of OASIS in governments and corporations he's using. All we need is more time."

"How on earth do you plan to stop a missile launch" John asked, throwing his hands in the air exasperated, this was ridiculous, they weren't agents, neither of them had any idea what they were doing, the fact they were still alive was sheer luck more than anything else.

"No idea" Sherlock replied moving towards the door "Mycroft will have people who can."

"Yes but Mycroft isn't here, in case you've forgotten Josef didn't even contact him, for all he knows we're still blundering around the streets of Split."

Sherlock put his ear to the door, listening for footsteps outside "Mycroft has a tracking device in my phone, thinks I don't know about it. If Josef lied about contacting him then its been three says since he's heard from us. He would have heard about the break in at Rykov's office, which means he'll be looking for us. Whatever they did with our phones, Mycroft will have the signal from the last place we were, his trail will end here and even he can figure that out."

John could almost dance in relief, so they weren't alone, so someone was coming.

"We don't have much time" Sherlock continued, "We need to get whatever information we can before Mycroft arrives. His men will attract attention, if OASIS destroys evidence of their plans before Mycroft's people get here.."

He didn't need to finish.

John nodded grimly, whatever happened they had to get their hands on the details of OASIS's plans, without them there would be no way to stop it. Rykov's words from only moments before seemed to spin round and round in John's head. It wasn't real, this sort of thing didn't happen, it couldn't happen.

But...but if it did. What would become of Europe, of the world, would it all happen as Rykov had said? John knew from experience what fear did to people, it stripped them of reason, of logic. The simple fact is that people will do whatever it takes to stay alive, it is our most basic instinct as human beings and when its life or death, the constraints of right and wrong seem to crumble. And when all is said and done, there is nothing more profoundly dangerous than someone who believes without question that their situation is life or death. A person who believes their path and actions are of necessity not choice, who has nothing left to lose, those are the people to fear, and OASIS's plan would create from Europe's citizens an entire population of such people.

Sherlock pulled the old wooden door to the room silently open and motioned at John that it was safe to continue. They crept along the deserted corridor, the stone floor covered in a long old fashioned carpet which silenced their footsteps. There were dozens of closed doors lining the hallway and John was half expecting one to fly open, for them to be discovered, for bullets to ring out behind them.

But impossibly, miraculously, they reached the end of the corridor unfound. Sherlock held out a hand to stop John, glancing around the corner where the hallway turned to meet a spectacular, stone staircase. He could hear voices rising up over the banister from the large marble foyer at the bottom of the stairs; he pressed his back into the wall next to Sherlock, heart pounding in his chest. He hazarded a quick glance past Sherlock down to catch a glimpse of the people milling about down there.

There were several familiar faces, a major London CEO, the Spanish minister of defence, a women he recognised from the papers, she had been at a major UN peace conference a few weeks before. They were all disappearing into a room off the foyer. John couldn't believe what he was seeing, could it be true that these people were part of OASIS, that they wanted what Rykov wanted?

Suddenly there were footsteps coming the corridor behind them, John cursed under his breath crouching down he and Sherlock sped around the corner, hurrying past the top of the stairs and along the parallel hallway on the other side. Sherlock paused, standing out against the lines of old fashioned wooden doors was a modern archway where a thick metal door stood. There was no handle on it, no gap beneath it, it seemed infused into the wall. On the wall next to it was a large keypad with a glowing green backlight beneath the keys.

The door screamed top secret. If they were going to find anything, it would be in there.

The footsteps were getting closer, Sherlock grabbed Johns hand and pulled him into the boiler cupboard across from the steel door pulling it shut behind him. They were cramped together face to face in the darkness, Johns back digging painfully into the shelf behind him, the whole cupboard smelt like bleach. The footsteps were outside now, heavy on the wooden floors. John heard a floorboard creak right outside their cupboard and the footsteps paused, he held his breath, certain the person would hear his heart pounding through the door. He imagined the mans hand reaching out, pulling the door open. There would be no time to run, no way out.

But instead John heard the beep of the keypad as a long series of numbers were punched in, there was a pause and then a low hiss as the doors slid open and closed again. John let out a sigh of relief, detangling himself from Sherlock he squinted through the crack between the door and the wall, the hallway was empty again. They spilled out of the cupboard, john rubbing his back where the shelf had dug into his spine "Did you hear the code?" he asked anxiously.

"Of course"

Sherlock punched in a flurry of digits, he didn't pause to think, he didn't need to. There was another pause and then the doors slid open again. It was an elevator, brightly lit and probably with a security camera inside John thought resignedly as they stepped through the doors. The elevator whirred into life, there were no buttons inside but it moved of its own accord taking them down, deep into the heart of the castle.


	15. Not Alone

The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors slowly slid open.

It looked as if they had stepped into NASA headquarters. An enormous panel of buttons, back-lit boards and touch screen panels stretched across the entire far width of the sizeable room. Above it were five enormous screens, one showing satellite images of cities, two were running complicated lines of code, one was blank and upon the final screen was an image John had seen recently before. It was a technical drawing of the missile, far more advanced than the one Sherlock had photographed, it was 3D spinning slowly on the screen.

But he recognised it, the small metal cylinder which had brought them right into the lions den.

The man who had entered before them was tall with long hair tied into a low ponytail. He wore frameless lenses and could not have been older than 21. His lab coat was crisp and white, new, he turned at the sound of the elevator door hissing open, a clipboard clutched in his slim fingers.

"Hay, what are yo-" His eyes opened in horror as Sherlock pulled the gun from his jacket and pointed it at the mans head. The clipboard fell to the metal ground with an echoing clatter and he took a step backwards so he was pressed against the futuristic computer panel behind him.

"Please" was all he managed. His hands were shaking

"We're going to need all of OASIS's plans" Sherlock said calmly as if he was ordering dinner. He stepped closer, the gun steady in his long fingers.

"I can't" Labcoat whimpered. His bottom lip was shaking, John didn't know how he had been recruited or even if it had been voluntary, but he looked as though he should still be in high school.

"Ohh, I'm sure that's not _quite_ true" Sherlock replied, his jaw set in a hard line.

There wasn't time for this.

"Crawford, he'll…he'll"

"Kill you?" Sherlock questioned, raising his eyebrows.

The young man nodded weakly, his green eyes fixed on the gun in the Detectives hands.

"And yet you think refusing us will yield a more favourable outcome?" there was a deepness to Sherlock's voice, an almost sinister quality that John both admired and was slightly apprehensive of. Sherlock cocked the gun, the sound of a bullet slipping into the chamber loud and clear.

The young man gulped, raising his hand "Okay, Okay, please…just…just don't…shoot me"

"I'll do my best" Sherlock replied sarcastically, lowering the gun and striding up to the man so they were side by side next to the computer panel.

There was a pause in which Sherlock glared expectantly at the boy who seemed frozen in place.

"We're in _rather_ a hurry" Sherlock stated menacingly.

The man jumped a little at the words "Oh…Oh yes of course, of course, sorry" he threw himself into an office chair and rolled quickly towards the nearest keyboard, his fingers dancing over the keys with incredible speed. Images and documents started to spring up on the five huge screens, overlapping each other and appearing so fast John could only catch a glimpse of them. There were profiles of people, maps, blueprints, satellite images and complicated looking equations.

"Sherlock" John said quietly, his eyes fixed on an image in the left hand corner of the middle screen.

Sherlock glanced up at him, following his gaze towards the image "I know" he replied quietly.

"They're here" John breathed, an edge of panic creeping into his voice "The missiles, they're beneath the castle, in the lake"

"Get this stuff on a flash drive, a hard drive, anything portable" Sherlock ordered and the young man fearfully nodded rummaging in a draw next to his seat. "And I'll need your phone"

"I…I...ah...don't have one" stuttered the young man his fingers pausing on the keys.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and roughly shoved his hand into the pocket of the man's lab coat, pulling out an expensive looking phone in a black case.

"Goodness, a mystery for the ages" Sherlock twirled the gun in his fingers and the young man gulped. But Sherlock ignored him, dialling a number quickly into the touch screen device while John supervised the transfer of data onto a small silver USB drive.

"Put me on to Mycroft" Sherlock was demanding into the phone, pacing the width of the wide room. "Oh he's busy is he? Perhaps you should check again" there was a pause and Sherlock sighed deeply "Gee, I don't know" He shot sarcastically to the unfortunate person on the end of the line "Maybe tell him that the impending destruction of the free world is upon us and his brother, that's me by the way, hello, would like to discuss it with him."

There was another pause.

"Yes I thought you might" Sherlock spat impatiently.

While Sherlock spoke to his brother in a string of words so fast John couldn't understand, the USB had completed the data transfer and john ejected it from the advanced computer the system. The young lab coat remained in his chair, watching John warily with wide eyes.

John watched Sherlock pace until finally he dropped the phone from his ear and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. He strode back over towards the computer panel "Do you have it" he demanded and John nodded, holding up the small silver USB grimly.

Sherlock nodded "Good, we need to go, Mycroft is here"

"What!" Said John in surprise, tucking the USB back into his jeans "How-"

"There's no time, in about four minutes this room is going to be crawling with Rykov's henchmen responding to the coded message our young friend here had just sent him."

Lab coat looked up nervously, the gun was still in Sherlocks hand. But they were already heading for the elevator.

"Hang on-" Lab Coat got up from his chair, his glasses crooked on his nose, he reached out a hand as if to stop them "You…you can't go" he tried to inject some form of authority into his voice but it was slightly ruined by the fact John could see his knees trembling though the thin material of his trousers.

Sherlock keyed in the code to call the elevator, the doors hissed open.

"Stopping us would be terribly ambitious of you" he said darkly. And the doors slid shut, Labcoat still standing where they had left him.

"Mycroft's here?" John asked quickly, turning on Sherlock as the elevator started to rise.

"Yes, it would appear Josef didn't betray us completely after all, he managed to get a message to Mycroft yesterday. He's sent a team, they're on the ridge-line where Rykov's men captured us earlier. I told him their plan and his men have orders to capture Rykov and every member of OASIS dead or alive. But even if they can get in and stop the missile launch before Rykov sets them off, he needs that USB, without the exact details of OASIS's plans some of it could still go ahead"

John nodded, he could feel the small silver device against his leg through the material of his trousers. It was reassuring.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors slid open again.

They had taken but three steps from the sleek silver doors when the unmistakable sound of gunfire echoed up the stone steps.

They both froze in the hallway. It would appear Mycroft's team had indeed arrived, although certainly not without the knowledge of OASIS. It seemed Rykov's instructions were to shoot now and ask questions later.

Things were in motion now and both men knew it. Rykov knew he had been discovered but he also happened to be about 20 ft from the control panel which would set off the missiles, missiles no one knew how to stop except perhaps some of the agents who were currently engaged in a gun fight and may not even make it through the front doors of the castle.

There was no doubt in John's mind that Rykov would have another way out, if he got away and could contact the rest of his organisation then even without the missiles, thousands, hundreds of thousands would die and Europe would erupt into chaos. Their best chance was to get OASIS's plans to Mycroft, but they were alone, trapped in the headquarters of their enemy armed only with a single handgun.

"Get down" John shouted, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him to the floor. A body flew through the air behind them and the searing heat of an explosion seamed to sear the skin off their faces. There was a strangled scream as an agent caught on fire, flailing wildly he tripped on the wide stone stairs, tumbling down them in a fiery haze.

They sped down the stairs after him, crouching low, several bullets burying themselves in the stone behind them.

The entrance was chaos, the wooden doors and floors blazing, a crossfire of agents and OASIS members tearing apart the stone around the doorway, small missiles of rock spinning through the dusty and smoke filled air.

"How do we get out" John shouted as they crouched behind a ruined cabinet lying smashed on its side.

"Back this way" Sherlock shouted over the roar of battle, his hand grasped John's tightly in his and they rushed back up the stairs. A tall burly figure at the top of the stairs was struggling against two agents. It was K, someone had found him and let him out. John watched as the assassin grabbed the blonde head of an agents while the other one struggled to her feet behind him. K's face was contorted, his teeth bared in a twisted snarl, his eyes bulging. K wrenched his arms savagely and John heard the distinctive sound of the agents neck snapping. The body crumpled to the ground and K let out an animalistic cry as the other agent buried a knife in his back. He spun on the young women and they disappeared in a flurry of fists.

Several members of OASIS descended down upon John and Sherlock and suddenly they were participants rather than spectators to the battle. A fit looking woman dressed entirely in black and wielding a knife ran at Sherlock knocking him clean off his feet, while John stumbled back as a powerful fist struck him across the face.

Sherlock was fast, graceful, moving like a cat he twisted away from the path of the knife, using the assailants momentum to push her into the stone bannister, she disappeared over the edge, falling into the chaos below. A kick in the back pushed Sherlock to the ground and he landed heavily, his hand twisting painfully beneath him. He rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding having his skull crushed beneath metal plated combat boots. His hand closed around a lose brick and he grasped it tightly as he lept to his feet, ducking beneath a heavy punch, he threw the brick with all his might and the man jerked his head backwards instinctively, dodging the brick but he was blinded for a moment and Sherlock acted instantly. He striked out with a savage undercut and his fist crashed savagely into his opponents jaw. But that wasn't enough, he swung around, putting all his strength into a round house kick, his foot landing square in the mans chest. The mans face went white and he slammed to the ground.

A bullet whizzed past Sherlocks shoulder, grazing his skin leaving a burning line. He had just enough time to see John knock two of Rykov's men to the ground, one screaming as his leg snapped with an audible crack, before something slammed into Sherlock, he fell backwards as if in slow motion, his hand reaching desperately for the banister down the middle of the stairs but he missed and tumbled down the stone steps. His head smashed against something, a flash of white exploding behind his eyes. A newly mended rib cracked and then he was lying crumpled at the bottom. His assailant landed next to him, dead, there was a gaping hole in his side, the ragged remains of what was once his arm bleeding freely in a sanguine pool.

There was another explosion from the doorway, thundering through the entrance hall. Great chunks of rock detached from the roof, crashing to the ground where they exploded against the cool hard marble floor.

Sherlock lay there, a loud ringing in his ears, his head throbbing, he could see John at the top of the stairs, he heard his name being yelled and John started to move desperately through the thick battle as an enormous piece of stone landed with a deafening crash 2ft from Sherlock's head.

The detective struggled to sit up, his movements slow and clumsy as if he was drunk. John had nearly reached the first stair, so focussed on Sherlock and the deadly rain of stone falling around the detective that he didn't notice the gun man leaning over the wooden banister of the corridor.

Sherlock watched in blurry horror as one, two, three bullets buried themselves in John's chest and arm.

John stopped, his eyes still wide in concern, his jeans torn, a dark bruise forming on his cheekbone. And then he crumpled to the ground, disappearing into the swarm of the raging battle.

Time has a strange way of slowing down in such moments, as if it desires pain, fear and desperation to be stretched out. A cruel reminder of ones helplessness.

It was as though each second contained an eternity, the fight continued around him, neither side yielding, neither side pausing. Bullets flew, flames roared, rock crumbled, but the sound was muted as if Sherlock was hearing it deep under the ocean.

Besides, it was meaningless noise, nothing mattered anymore. He ascended the stairs, it was as if he was drifting, floating above the floor, like he no longer quite belonged here, in this moment, in this world. He felt separate, isolated, a spectator once more to the scene before him. No one stopped him, no one gave him a second look, the battle was moving away, along the corridors, away from the fire. The members of OASIS were regrouping, more agents bursting through windows, the glass shattering silently to the floor in the strange dreamlike world Sherlock was trapped in. Those fallen already remaining where they were, dark silhouettes casting strange shadows in the flickering fire light.

John's body lay on its side, his pale hand dangling over the edge of the first stone step, a trickle of blood dripping off his limp fingertips.

Sherlock dropped heavily to his knees, he felt weak, as if all energy, as if all life had been torn from him instead. With one hand he gently rolled John onto his back, he needed to make sure, he needed to see. He was grasping Johns shoulders tightly as if he was a life raft, as if letting go would leave him adrift forever, alone in a vast ocean.

This wasn't real, this hadn't happened, it couldn't be true.

No, it couldn't be because life was not that cruel, because such pain surely could not exist in this world. There would be no new beginning, no second chance. He had felt the crushing force of despair before, such a thing tears you apart piece by piece until nothing is left, an anchor dragging you down. There is no escape from its heavy hand, no island free from its smothering reach, you simply retreat to some dim place within, surrounded by the suffocating, aching blankness.

Drugs had taken the edge off, provided a brief respite, but they would not be enough this time. John had saved him, in every way a person can be saved and to lose him… to have that taken away, there would be no surviving that.

But John's eyes snapped open, he spluttered, coughing, his hand clutching his chest as he tried to sit up. Sherlock was frozen in place, without thinking he had pulled Johns shoulders into his lap, supporting him as John groaned in pain, taking deep laboured breaths "Christ" he muttered coughing weakly "Jesus that hurt."

Sherlocks arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulder, there was blood on Johns arm where the third bullet had struck, but Sherlock noticed at that moment that there was no evidence of any other wound. His stupefied brain seemed to whirl to life again, the world seemed to slide back into focus, the volume was turned up and the pain of his injuries returned.

He noticed something thick and black through the ragged holes in Johns shirt, he prodded it in disbelief, his finger brushing the cold metal of the bullet still lodged in it.

It was a bullet proof vest.

John twisted his head so he was looking at Sherlock, the detectives grey eyes wide, a curious expression in them.

"Sherlock?"

No response

"Sherlock, I'm ok, its just…argh…my arm"

Sherlock blinked "Oh yes…the vest…you.."

"Josef had half an armoury in his basement, he told us to put them on, don't you remember" John suddenly looked shocked and sat up a bit more, wincing "Arn't you wearing one?!" he demanded.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows thoughtfully"I don't recall Josef saying, people were talking, none of them me, I must have tuned out" He looked down at John smiling slightly. Relief flooded through his entire being like a tidal wave.

John frowned, rolling his eyes, an exasperated look on his face. He struggled forward, groaning in pain and Sherlock leapt up so he could help John to his feet, lifting him gently under the arms.

John surveyed the damage to his shoulder grimly "Its not too bad" he said, kneeling down to tear a ragged length of material from a body at his feet. He handed it to Sherlock who tied it tightly around the wound, John took a deep breath, hissing in pain and gritting his teeth "Feels like I've been hit by a bloody train" he grimaced and rubbed his chest gingerly.

Suddenly a thick chunk of stone exploded behind them reminding them they were in the midst of a battle and Sherlock grabbed John, towing him around the corner, along the corridor. The fire blazing behind them blocked the main entrance, they could hear shouting, screaming and the deafening sound of weapons echoing above and below them. There was no way out.

Well, perhaps that wasn't quite true.

"The basement" Sherlock said loudly as they crouched by the wall, the heat of the flames making sweat bead on his brow, "The tunnel we were going to look for this morning, if it exists thats the best chance of getting out alive"

John covered his head as more debris flew past him "Lets go then" he shouted as a deep thundering came from above them.

Sherlock shook his head, "No just you, you have the USB, find Mycroft, make sure he gets it" Sherlock started to get to his feet but John grabbed his arm, pulling him firmly back to the ground.

"Are you mad" he cried angrily "You stay in here you'll get yourself killed, this whole place is swarming with Rykov's men"

"Exactly, I'm going back to their control panel, if the agents don't make it in someone has to stop the missile launch"

John shook his head in disbelief "How the bloody hell are you planning on doing that Sherlock, is how to prevent a cataclysmic missile strike filed nicely away in your mind palace?" he threw his hands up in frustration.

Sherlock almost smiled "Maybe"

But he had already made up his mind and John knew this was bigger than them, bigger than both of them, all that mattered right now was stopping OASIS.

At whatever cost.

Sherlock started to move back down the hallway, keeping low, moving stealthy.

"Sherlock" John called, he couldn't help it.

Sherlock paused; turning to face John, their eyes locked and John bit his lip "Just…just be careful alright?"

An odd expression passed over Sherlock's face as if he was surprised someone had expressed desire for his safe return.

He just nodded slightly and then disappeared into the smoke.


	16. The Forgotten Route

John sprinted down the steps to the basement, the USB flash drive digging painfully into his leg through his pocket, he patted it reassuringly. He could hear bangs above him, shouts and the sound of bullets ricocheting around. There was a deep rumbling as something heavy fell-shaking the roof and dislodging dust which fluttered down upon him. He reached the bottom of the stairs, breathless, his chest and ribs aching from the impact of the bullets, the wound on his arm was on fire.

Before him was a huge stone cellar, it was dim, the enormous shapes of commercial wine barrels hazy shadows in the corner. He started to comb the room frantically, he didn't even know if he was on the old foundation of the castle, there could be another layer on top of it for all he knew, or perhaps there was no tunnel after all, long closed in or collapsed.

If that was true then he was trapped.

The chances of getting out any of the main doors without becoming a casualty of the WW3 raging above him was nearly impossible.

But he couldn't find anything, there was no sign of any secret passage, any trap door. He didn't know what he expected to find, a flashing neon sign, an old bookcase with a special ornament you tip to reveal a secret hatchway.

There were wine barrels, cardboard boxes, some tools and a thriving spider population. But no tunnel.

He almost cried out in exasperation, he lent against the wall behind him, wiping the sweat and grime off his face. His whole body ached and he was more exhausted than was humanly possible.

It was at that moment he realised the wall he was leaning on was not stone like the others, but painted plywood. In the darkness of the vast basement it was impossible to tell the difference.

A wooden wall- was it possible it had been built over something, that it was hiding an old part of the castle the owner had tried to build over?

Christ, at that point anything was worth a try.

He hunted out the tools again, dragging a sledgehammer and axe over the wall.

Shoulders protesting, chest screaming and arm burning he attacked the wall, forcing the axe in with all his might. He was rewarded as a chunk of wood came free. The minutes snailed by, any moment someone might follow him down the steep spiral stairs, he was making a hell of a noise, but compared to what was happening above him, he hoped it was going unnoticed.

There was a stone wall behind the plywood one, identical to the rest of the basement. He moved along the wall, tapping it with the hammer, listening for something hollow, something which sounded like…well anything really.

And then he found it. In the far corner, right at the bottom.

Behind the plywood wall was a small hole in the stone, barely big enough for a person to fit through. Back with the tools he managed to unearth a large and ancient looking torch which managed to turn on after a few whacks, emitting a rather pathetic beam of light. Jone shone it into the hole, it went further than the beam illuminated, that was a good sign, and it appeared to get bigger as it went on.

The idea of getting stuck in this hole in the wall was half terrifying and half hilarious. He imagined the look on Rykov's face if he descended to the basement to find John's rear end trapped in the wall.

It was best not to think about getting stuck, actions first, questions later.

John eased himself into the gap and started to crawl, the thick claustrophobia settled around him and he breathed purposively, _hand, knee, hand, knee. _The stone ground dug painfully into his legs, it was cold and damp on his fingers,_ hand, knee, hand, knee_ until finally the tunnel widened and he could almost stand. Sighing in relief he awkwardly unfolded himself off the ground and struggled to his feet, maybe there was a chance after all. He continued to stumble along in the wake of the torch's pathetic light, hunched over, shivering slightly in cave like coldness and praying like hell the torch wouldn't die on him.

Around the next corner the tunnel ended suddenly, a tiny dusty hatch sitting at the foot of the wall.

_How fantastic_

John pulled it open reluctantly, nearly wrenching his arm out of the socket as he did so, the hinges rusted shut. It was pitch black below him, it could have been two feet or thirty to the ground, he didn't know.

Basing everything on the assumption that no one in their right mind would build a hidden tunnel which lead only to a fatal drop, he lowered himself so he was sitting on the edge of the trap door, his legs dangling in the dark space beneath him.

John took a shuddering breath and dropped, the space barely wide enough to fit through, his sides scraping painfully past the wooden edges as he fell, the lid slamming shut behind him. It wasn't far thank goodness. The ground only 8 or 10 feet below him but he landed heavily, the impact jarring up his legs as his legs crumpled. There was about a foot of cold, stagnant smelling water in the tunnel below him. He held the weak torch before him to get his bearings, around him was a narrow stone corridor, there were cobwebs on the roof which, apart from the chute he had just fallen down, was no higher than the tunnel above. _Would it really have troubled them to add another foot of height to the __corridor_ he grumbled to himself.

The water on the ground looked black in the dim lighting, it was seeping into his shoes, making the bottom of his jeans heavy. He grimaced at the sensation and started to move.

The corridor ran dead straight for about 20 minutes, the air cold, the tunnel silent except for the sloshing of Johns feet and the occasional rumble from the castle far above.

Eventually the path twisted left, he was moving away from the castle now, but the path inclined gently downwards. The water got steadily deeper until John was wading, sticks and other debris brushing against him. It was icy cold and lapped hungrily at thighs, weighing down his jeans. The light bounced off the wall up ahead and immediately John realised why the tunnel hadn't been filled in, why there had been no danger of anyone entering or exiting this way. He wasn't just under the castle, he was under the lake. The slime on the wall and the incline of the path said as much and about 10 yards ahead of him the roof sloped dangerously low, the water chest height.

John paused for a moment cursing under his breath. For all he knew it was a dead end, he might swim along the passage to find it blocked and it wasn't like he had a handy stash of the homemade explosives Sherlock and Josef had made for their initial plan of entry.

But there wasn't a choice, there was no going back. He shrugged off his jacket, and bullet ridden vest discarding them to the ground. He slipped out of his shoes as well; they would only weigh him down. He thought about removing his jeans, knowing the denim would become a dead weight once wet, but the thought of emerging from the tunnel to meet Mycroft or whoever Mycroft had sent wearing nothing but a shirt and underwear was definitely not an option. The trousers would stay.

He clambered into the water, the cold murkiness swirling around him, it stunk. His feet were barely touching the ground and the water was up to his neck- the top of his head dragging along the rocky roof of the corridor. He half walked half swam for far longer than was comfortable until the sight before him confirmed his greatest fear. The roof sloped again, disappearing into the water.

His eyes almost watered in frustration, what the bloody hell was he doing here? This was all Mycroft's fault, and if he ever got his hands on that Crawford fellow he would throttle him to within an inch of his life.

He didn't know how far it would be underwater, it could have been a couple of meters, or it could have been a couple of hundred. He treaded water for a while, the list of possible options running through his mind. Except it wasn't much of a list, there was only ever one eventuality.

There was no going back, there was no staying here, whatever was happening above him, whatever Sherlock had planned, he needed to get out with that single, plastic computer drive on which potentially thousands of lives depended on.

He let go of the torch, it floated away from his hand, bobbing on the surface for a moment before disappearing under the surface. The light illuminated the water for a moment, a hazy mess of murky debris, before the light spluttered out and John was plunged into darkness.

He took a deep breath, hyperventilating slightly, trying to oxygenate his blood, knowing it would give him a few more precious seconds and then he plunged into the blackness.

* * *

**May I just say that you are all amazing. **

**I appreciate your kind reviews more than I can say, its certainly very motivating. **

**You're all lovely people.**

**xx**


	17. A True Mastermind

Rykov glanced behind him, he could see the thick smoke billowing from the castle rising above the lake, hovering in the sky like a sinister black cloud.

He had underestimated Holmes and Watson. It had been a costly mistake.

In the midst of the meeting he had received the message that a large contingent of secret service and military forces from various European states were about to descend upon them.

Rykov was not a stupid man, to stay would be suicide. The game was up, all present members of OASIS would be discovered, that was unfortunate.

For them.

Rykov was prepared for every eventuality, his plan was not some fleeting desire which had sprung into existence in a matter of days, he had been working on it for years, changing the world was a long and arduous task and it could not be brought down by a few men with guns.

The castle was full of guards, mercenaries, ex-military guns for hire, assassins. They had given him the time to escape, and they would buy time for Crawford who would go straight to the control room and set off the missiles.

The secret service agents would enter the castle, his men would open fire, many would die but hte victor wouldn't matter, because it would be too late.

Everything would be set into motion early, but such trifles were irrelevant, the loyal members of OASIS across the world would spring into actions. Perhaps Europe would not crumble quite as Rykov had imagined, the team of agents would undoubtably painfully extract from the captured members of OASIS the details of the entire plan, the names of the people he had corrupted, the moles.

But by then the point of no return would have long sailed past. It would be impossible to stop all the bombs, to stop all the people dying, to prevent the fall of all the governments. There would still be chaos, there would be fury and grief and Rykov would watch it all happen.

* * *

A fist of flame smacked Sherlock and he was shoved back against the wall, the searing heat knocking the breath from him and searing his lungs. He coughed, dragging himself to his feet and stumbling towards the metal elevator for the second time that day. He could hear the gunfight continuing downstairs, the deafening racket of bullets and screams.

Sherlock punched in the code for the elevator, the smoke billowing up the stairs making his eyes water. The doors slid open and he collapsed inside, greedily consuming the clean air. He sat in the corner for a moment as the elevator descended slowly into the belly of the castle. He had a splitting headache, he had re-broken several of his ribs and could feel the deep twang of his other still unhealed wounds-protesting against his activities.

His body was betraying him at the worst possible time. It demanded rest and recuperation but it would get neither.

He dragged himself painfully to his feet as the elevator slowed, he knew the room below would not be empty and he extracted K's gun from his jacket, the magazine still had 3 bullets. He glanced quickly at his watch, John would be out by now, he would have escaped. Whatever was about to happen it gave him great comfort to know that John would be safe.

In the end that's all that really mattered.

He drew himself up to his full height and set his shoulders straight, the elevator had stopped, there was a hiss and once again the doors slid smoothly open.

As expected he was not alone. But there was no army, no insurmountable force gathered below with machine guns trained upon him.

A single figure stood calmly in the middle of the room, a smile on his face.

He stuck out his thin hand in greeting "Crawford" the smooth voice said, a smile dancing in his eyes "It's been too long."

Sherlock froze on the spot, the gun dangling limply from his hand as he watched the man move closer, there was a confidence in his step that Sherlock recognised, a familiarity.

Because they had met before.

It was Moriarty.


	18. Into the Deep

Johns fingers grazed along the stone edges of the submerged corridor as he kicked out behind him, surging his body forward, he didn't know how long he had been underwater, how far he had gone. The tunnels exit could two meters away, or it could be a mile, it was pitch black, his eyes were open but it was useless, he couldn't see a thing.

John had wondered what it would be like to drown. He could already feel his body reacting to the absence of air, his lungs felt as if they were going to burst, carbon dioxide was accumulating in his blood, bringing him to the instinctual urge for oxygen in his lungs.

_Do not breath!_ He had to keep going, John kicked out, frantically propelling himself along faster, _kick, stroke, kick, stroke._ But he was slowing down, his arms and legs growing weaker. The reflex to inhale was increasing with each passing moment. He knew he would soon reach what was called the breath-hold break point, the moment at which a human being is no longer able to voluntarily hold their breath. His lungs will open, the crushing force of water would pour inside and he would die.

He had to be there soon, it couldn't be far, he had walked in the tunnel for ages, surely he was away from the hill and under the lake now.

Suddenly his hands hit something in front of him, he fumbled in the darkness, his numb fingers moving slowly and awkwardly, _no, no, no, NO!_ He had reached the tunnels exit, that much was for certain, but over the exit was a solid metal grate, a door trapping him in this watery prison. He screamed beneath the water, in anger, frustration or fear, he didn't know. Bubbles streaming from his mouth, his eyes wide.

It wasn't fucking fair, he had come all this way, only to drown. Everything he and Sherlock had done would mean nothing, it had all been useless. He was sick of this, sick of everything.

A wise man once said death is a predator which stalks us all the days of our lives, watching, waiting. It was if this predator had been circling John constantly for the past 10 years, always on the verge, occasionally lunging forward to claim its prey but changing its mind at the last second, letting it struggle onwards for another day. His world seemed like a precariously placed set of scales, whenever something went right another thing crumbled in its place.

_But you choose this_ a voice muttered in the back of his mind and John knew it was right. He had choosen to come to Croatia, but that wasn't the beginning, it had begun the moment he had met Sherlock, all those years ago at Barts. Perhaps his path had always been leading here, not to this tunnel or the watery grave, but to an early death. He had never expected reach an old age, it simply didn't seem to be on the cards. A part of him had known he was choosing a life of danger, but that had not scared him, not as much as the simple, crushing tedium of day to day life had scared him. One could blame many things for where they ended up in their last moments, family, friends, work, perhaps fate. We can try and blame our map, folded too many times, out-of-date, a mess of lines where we have changed the course of our lives time and time again. But mostly, if you are honest, you will only ever be able to blame yourself. And in the that moment there was a certainty which descended upon John, he had taken this road, and he would not have changed a single thing. If this was to be the end, then so be it, but there was no bloody way he was going out without a fight.

He shook the grate with all his might, bringing his knees up to use as much force as he could possibly muster, a sudden energy and strength surging through his veins. And impossibly, miraculously the grate loosened and fell away. Whether it was weak, or rusted from god knows how many years underwater John didn't care, he was already surging up through the darkness, the glimmering surface of the lake getting closer and closer until his head broke through the surface and his lungs opened, a great, heaving throaty gasp as the oxygen rushed in. He lay there for a moment on his back in the water, taking enormous greedy breaths, the water still around him, his ears submerged in the water, the muffled quiet oddly comforting.

But this wasn't over.

He began to swim and the world came rushing back, he could hear gunfire and shouting, there was a great bang and a bust of flame exploded from a window on the castles western wing. A helicopter thundered above, hovering like a bird of prey watching the scene play out below. John reached the bank, heaving himself onto it and lying on the dirty bank, his eyes shut, his entire body screaming at him to just stay there, to sleep, to let others worry about what was happening. Water was streaming off his hair and down in front of his eyes. He could feel it dripping off his chin. He had left his shoes in the tunnel, but his socks were full of water, his clothes had turned into sodden rags, thick and heavy. But he dragged himself to his feet and somehow pushed his body into a clumsy run, tripping and stumbling across the uneven ground he headed up the hill to the ridge line. It may as well have been Everest.

His socked feet agonisingly found every sharp stick and rock, the bushes and trees grappled at his face and arms, the harsh incline never yielding for a moment. But he didn't stop, he didn't stop even though he had never felt so exhausted in all his life, he knew Mycroft was waiting and he knew Sherlock was in danger. The shape of the USB stick in his pocket was his only comfort as he ascended through the forest.

Finally he burst from the trees onto the gravel and saw several large vehicles and armoured trucks perched near the trees, figures in black placed at even intervals around it. Josef's car was still there, the three bodies slumped in a heap on the ground, several flies buzzing above them. John tried not to think about it, he staggered towards the vehicles to find several large guns pointed at his head, but he had never felt so relieved in his life as behind them he saw a tall figure wielding an umbrella emerge from a van full of computers, phone in hand.

"Mycroft" John heaved, his legs crumpling beneath him from exhaustion, the ground was hard and cold beneath him. He reached into his pocket, the USB brushing his hand.


	19. The Point of No Return

"You" Sherlock said quietly.

"Did you miss me?" Moriarty purred, spreading his arms wide. He was dressed in a crisp and immaculately tailored grey suit, his dark eyes wide and glinting with a look that managed to be simultaneously playful and sinister.

"You're dead"

"Am I though?" Moriarty questioned in mock surprise, he tilted his head in an almost reptilian way, the dark eyes unblinking.

"So you're the head of OASIS," it wasn't a question.

"Sherlock" Moriarty shook his head slowly in mock displeasure "You don't really think Rykov was behind this? I mean it was his idea sure, but a plan like this requires a little something _extra,_ something like…. well, me. I'm just here to help, ordinary people are so adorable don't you think, their grand plans, eee-veryone wants to change the world. I mean don't get me wrong, he's got ambition that for sure" He smirked, his dark eyes fixed on Sherlock. "Although I didn't think patriotic missions were _your _thing Sherrrlock, but then that's not why you're here is it?"

Hands in pockets Moriarty strolled casually alongside the computer panel, inspecting it, he ran a finger along the edge as if checking for dust before turning back to Sherlock "You've come to find Crawford, not quite what you were expecting was it, but you have to admit, it's sexier this way."

"You sent the old man" Sherlock frowned, it didn't make sense "Why? If you were trying to distract me from OASIS then-"

"Distract you!" Moriarty looked up in disbelief his face darkening, his voice suddenly cold "I'm disappointed in you Sherlock, _I'm disappointed_. OASIS is just my side project, I'm back to solve the problem Sherlock, our problem. The final problem. The old man wasn't there to distract you, he was there to _destroy _you."

Moriarty was smiling again, no trace in his face of the anger from a moment ago "They'll do anything for revenge won't they. Have you enjoyed it Sherlock, our little game, solving the puzzle of OASIS, trying to save the world. Is that what you told Johnny-boy? Does he know why you're really here."

"And why am I _really_ here" Sherlock spat in disgust.

"You tell me, a distraction, answers, revenge, to try and ease your conscience?"

"I don't need to ease my cons-"

"Now, now Sherlock, we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty's eyes narrowed "That's the problem with being on the side of the angels. The blood on your hands, what happened to Rose and Katherine, it bothers you doesn't it?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

Moriarty's grin widened he moved closer so they were only a few metres apart.

He laughed "Oh dear Sherlock, it more than bothers you, you're lost, you don't know what to do, how to cope. I underestimated the old man, I told him how to destroy you and now here you are like a lost puppy." He raised his eyebrows "Easy peasy."

Moriarty took another step forward so they were only inches apart, his face moving slowly from side to side like a lizard. Sherlock stood motionless, his jaw set as Moriarty spoke again, his mouth so close to Sherlock's ear that he could feel the mans cold breath "It hurts doesn't it Sherlock, what you've done, what the old man did to you and no puzzle will make it stop."

There was nothing to say. As much as Sherlock would never admit it out loud, least of all to the man before him. Moriarty was right.

That's why he had come to Croatia for Mycroft, why he had thrown himself into the puzzle of OASIS with force, to distract himself, yes, but also because he knew this path would bring him to Crawford.

He didn't know what he had expected to find, maybe a part of him hoped he would discover that none of what the old man had said was true, or maybe he thought he could forget what had happened, that somehow Crawford, the person who had brought the old man to him, would be able to offer him the closure, the absolution he so needed.

But instead he was in a missile launch room with Jim Moriarty.

He wished he had never listened to Mycroft, that he had never come here, that none of this had ever happened.

He wasn't coping and he knew it. The thought ashamed him, it was a weakness and he had no time for such things, no patience for it. His ability to repress things had always seemed like a talent, something which set him apart from the emotion fuelled rabble of ordinary peoples' lives. But it had failed him at the worst possible time and now he was in too deep, he didn't know how to go back to how things were before, he didn't know how to block out the thoughts and memories that burned in the dark recesses of his mind.

The torture, he could feel the pain of it still. It was as though the memory of it had scarred itself upon every inch of his skin that K had touched, the pain lurked beneath the surface, ready to emerge at any moment. Whenever he closed his eyes, when it too was silent or if he was alone with nothing but his thoughts it would rear its ugly face and he would be trapped in the basement with K and the old man all over again. He could feel the whip on his skin, K's fist, and the device, the white, blinding and all-consuming agony of Rykov's invention.

But it was more than the physical pain, it was Katherine and Rose, it was what the old man had said, back in London, in that abandoned factory, it seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago.

_'Why do you want so badly not to be human?'_

That phrase, among many, seemed to circle in Sherlock's mind like a record skipping on its track, over and over. Had the old man been right? He was certainly not the first to accuse Sherlock of being less than human and maybe it was the truth. _Was he intentionally like that?_ Sherlock wondered.

_Sometimes_, the voice of truth in the back of his mind whispered, there was certainly a part of him that held sentiment and such emotions in disdain. They distracted people, blinded them to what was in front of them. Then there was the fact that he honestly did not understand many of the emotions ordinary people seemed to consume their minds with.

But not understanding them does not mean you are exempt from them. The emotions were still there, they still existed somewhere, he just chose not to feel them, not to give them the time of day. But did that make him better at seeing what other people missed, did it give him an edge, was it an advantage?

He wasn't so sure anymore.

But in the beginning, on the surface, the simple reality is that it is easier not to feel. Sherlock had learnt as a child, as a young adult that the world was a cruel place, there was pain, loss and despair lurking around every corner. He thought perhaps he would get used to it, that in time such things would lessen their impact. But they did not and so he had hidden the part of him that got hurt deep inside where it would no longer be exposed to the darkness of the world.

But as recent events had exemplified, such a tactic was hardly fool proof. An unfortunate fact of human nature is that the things we choose to lock away do not simply rot and disappear, they do not fade from existence, they remain exactly where we left them, in the box we locked them away in, they will wait for their moment no matter how long it takes.

It seemed the encounter with the old man had savagely ripped open that box, everything Sherlock had kept hidden away seeped out into the open again. Perhaps it was because the whole thing had surprised him, the real purpose of the murder-suicides, the reason the old man had been looking for him. It would be a lie to say he did not know that his deductions sometimes hurt people, John often reminded him as much, but that was an unavoidable part of his life, it wouldn't be necessary if people just looked, if they saw what was right in front of them.

But in the case of the old man, and of his wife Rose, it had caught him off guard. There was hurting people, and then there was pushing someone to suicide.

Sherlock had also been wrong. Was the worst part of all of it? He didn't know, maybe.

The guilt had weaselled its way inside him, for Katherine, for Rose and for the old man. But that emotion had not come alone. Its as if the floodgates in his mind had been shattered by that guilt, unleashing everything else. Regrets, fear, loss, pain, loneliness, it swept through him like a tidal wave, cast him out in a wide ocean without a life raft and no sign of land.

From the outside everything seemed okay, he knew he had fooled John, he carried on as usual, if not only because he didn't know what else to do. But on the inside it was as if his mind was tearing itself apart, piece-by-piece.

For all his genius, one does not develop the skills to cope without exercising them. The effect of those long years of repression had showing their true colours, and for the first time in decades Sherlock felt lost. Yes, there was really no other word to describe it. It was if something had broken inside of him, something he didn't know if he could ever fix.

And so Moriarty had won, there are many ways to destroy a person, but perhaps the most painful and certainly the most effective is to make a person the architect of their own demise.

As the old man had said, everyone has his or her pressure point. Such a thing is not limited to the people we love, the ones we care about, but it exists in every fibre of our being. There is always something, a memory, a thought; an insecurity which if exploited can bring down everything. And Sherlock had never killed anyone before, not in cold blood. Was that what he had done to Rose? Maybe not fully, maybe not completely, but as the old man had said, our actions have consequences.

Taking a life is not like in the movies, there is not often a spectacular battle nor valiant heroics, there is nothing heroic about death. What there is, are human beings, like you or I, forced into a situation, into a split second where they simply act. Whatever the weapon of choice it is wielded against a real person with real flesh and blood. They will die, but you- you will live with what you have done for the rest of your life. You will never forget it.

Perhaps Sherlock's situation was different, he had not pulled a trigger, he had not slashed a knife, but a woman had still died by his hand and she was not evil, she was not in the midst of some terrible act, there was no self defence, no one to protect. She had been a waitress curious about an intelligent boy, and she had died.

Sherlock hadn't even known what his actions had reaped until many years later, did that make a difference? Did that change anything when the result was still the same?

At least a person who takes a life directly by their hands makes a choice, it might not be the right one, it might have been made in split second or be instinctual rather than a result of cohesive thoughts, but a choice has still been made, there is a sense of ownership. We may regret it, we may always wonder what would have happened if we had chosen another path, but nevertheless we own the choice we make, it is ours, for better or for worse, and in many ways that makes it easier to swallow. But Sherlock had made no such choice, not in the same sense, one could say it was a mistake, that he couldn't have known, that he was young, that he had misread the situation, misread the woman.

But this is the real world, the justifications and excuses we tell ourselves to shift the blame do not bring the same redemption here. For there is no black and white, no good and bad, it is a world of grey, what is wrong or what is justified to us does not ring true in the same way with any other person on the planet. There are two sides to every story of course, but which is better, which is the right one? Perhaps that is a question which cannot be fairly answered.

So Sherlock did not try and justify in his mind what he had done, there was no point. The thick and thin of it was that he had blood on his hands and that knowledge is not only powerful, it is destructive.

"And so here we are at last" Moriarty continued, he walked around behind Sherlock, too close for comfort stopping again when they were face to face "You and me Sherlock"

He put his head in his hands, gripping his hair tightly "It was too easy Sherlock, too easy" he whined in a tormented voice "Why did you make it so easy, so boring, over too fast, WHY!?" He shouted the last word, his voice ringing out in the room echoing around the walls.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, his face like stone; he would not play this game, not this time.

Moriarty rubbed his eyes vigorously and then looked up, the snake like smile back on his face, his emotions changing faster than he could blink "Oh well, we're running out of time" He glanced at the expensive watch in his wrist "Shall we carry on Sherlock, shall we enter the final stage of our game. Do you want to set off the missiles or shall I?"

Sherlock moved closer, his walk confident, his back straight "What are you doing, you don't want money or power, you don't care about _changing _Europe" he spat the words out, his long hands resting clasped behind his back as the two men watched each other.

Moriarty shrugged in an exaggerated motion "Maybe I just want to watch, the panic, the fear, they'll fight, kill, loot and riot, and the world will burn." He inspected the nails on his right hand in a disinterested kind of way "And who knows something interesting might pop up, I've been working on something Sherlock, saving it up for something special and this might be it"

"Spreading yourself a little thin don't you think" Sherlock drawled and Moriarty looked up, a serious expression on his face.

"You could help me Sherlock, you and I together, we'd be unstoppable. And it wouldn't be boring, I promise."

Sherlock looked up, masking the surprise which coursed through him, whatever he had thought when he had seen Moriarty standing before the elevator, whatever this was about, he hadn't expected that. He frowned.

Moriarty's face was animated now, a kind of light in his dark eyes, it should have made his face softer, kinder, but it made him look deranged. It was terrifying. "I can fix it Sherlock, the pain, the doubt. You're on the side of the angels, but you don't have to be, you don't need to care about ordinary people, they don't matter, we're better than them Sherlock."

Moriarty turned towards the computer panel and nodded pointedly at a large red button in the centre of the panel. It was the most cliché 'launch' button Sherlock had ever seen but there was no mistaking its purpose.

So that's what all of this was about, sending the old man, creating a puzzle which would lead Sherlock to him. So Sherlock could press the button, so he could launch the missiles and be responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths, so he could leap so far over the line between right and wrong that he would never find his back, and then he would be exactly like Moriarty, the only thing that distinguished them would be gone.

But so would the guilt and the pain of Rose and Katherine. In the face of so much death and destruction they would be but an insignificant blip. When the loss of a life becomes just a statistic in your mind then you have arrived in a place no human being should ever go. It is hard to imagine that level of unfeeling, that measure of cruel indifference, but it is everywhere, and Sherlock could join them, if he wanted, just one little push on the button and it would be done.

"You're insane"

Moriarty laughed "You're just getting that now?" the smile died off his face and he moved so they were face to face again "Don't pretend like you're not considering it Sherlock, you would do anything to make it stop, to get rid of the guilt, the pain."

He didn't blink, Moriarty's eyes darker than the deepest ocean trench bored into his, waiting. "I'm not a murderer"

Moriarty stepped back, the intensity draining from his face "We both know that's a lie"

Moriarty shrugged and drew a gun from his jacket. Sherlock went to copy his movement, reaching for the cold metal of K's weapon.

But it was gone, Moriarty laughed "Not on great form today are you Sherly."

Moriarty pulled K's gun from his pocket so he had a weapon in both hands. He must have slipped it from Sherlock while they had been talking, how had he not noticed? It was sloppy, inexcusable, how long had Sherlock been like this? Since the hospital?

Moriarty pointed the guns at his head "Let me try it this way Sherlock, push the button or die"

Sherlock moved slowly over to the panel and he suddenly saw what had been hidden from him on the othernside of the room. The panel was broken, utterly destroyed, the screens smashed, the keyboard snapped, the wires behind ripped apart. It was completely dead, it would appear the only thing working on it was the button to activate the missiles. Moriarty was taking no chances. If the missiles were launched there would be no way to stop them from this panel.

He stared at the button, was Moriarty right again, was he seriously considering it? Would committing such an act really strip away so much of his humanity that he could go back to how things were, aloof, distant, uncaring?

_And just like Moriarty._

He was not stupid, he had always known there was a part of him more like Morairty than he ever dared admit to himself, but he had locked that part away deep inside himself and he would never let it escape. No, there had never been any question about it, he would die before he caused the death of so many, other people did matter, he had no right to choose their fate, regardless of whether it would take his pain away, he would not become Moriarty.

He turned away from the ruined panel and Moriarty smirked at him "Don't say I didn't offer. John is going to be _very_ upset, I hope you didn't promise him you'd make it out safely"

Moriarty reached out his hand so it was hovering over the red button, the reptilian grin back on his face.

Sherlock dived forward. He no longer cared about his own safety, there was no doubt in his mind that Moriarty would go through with this, and he had to stop it, at whatever cost.

But Moriarty had been expecting the move and the gun in his right hand suddenly sailed through the air.

Sherlock felt a savage blow on the side of his head as Moriarty struck him, he was thrown back, dazed. The room swam in front of his eyes and he stumbled, falling heavily to the metal floor.

"Don't be obvious Sherlock" Moriarty smiled, shaking his head. But Sherlock knew Moriarty would see it coming, he had counted on it and when he had lunged forward he had also snatched the gun Moriarty had placed next to the red button to free his hand for the small push which would unleash terror on Europe.

He cocked the gun in his hand, steady and calm.

Moriarty watched, a spark of morbid fascination in his face.

The two men stared at each other, one standing over the computer panel, one crouched on the ground. But both men watching the other, reading his face, trying to decipher the certainty of the others actions. Perhaps in any other situation, with any other people there might have been an impasse, the moment when neither would act, fearful of the consequences, the reprisal their actions would have, for others, for themselves.

But this was Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. At that moment they both knew exactly what would happen, they both knew how it would end.

Moriarty looked down the line of the gun pointed at Sherlock's head, he knew he would not need it. He would losethat part, but in return he would win and Sherlock knew it.

But it had been worth it, he had enjoyed the game, it had been the greatest distraction of all, the best entertainment, and one had to pay the price for such a thing, that's just how the game went.

He stabbed his finger down on the button.

A gunshot rang out simultaneously and Moriarty slumped against the computer panel, blood blossoming from the wound in his chest. He laughed, a shuddering, breathless laugh. Blood gurgled in his lungs, dripping from the corner of his mouth.

There was a loud warning beep and Moriarty closed his eyes in delight, the countdown clock had started. He had added the timer, it was more dramatic that way. 4 minutes and the missiles would launch, of that he had no doubt whatsoever.

It was impossible to cancel them, there was no emergency stop, no off button, at least none that had survived his dismantling of the computer panel. Yes, the choice between trigger and button had cost him his life, but he had ruined Sherlock and now he would destroy Europe, yes, definitely worth it.

There was no dramatic or emotional finale between Moriarty and Sherlock, no final words between villain and hero, no whispered phrases of anger or regret bringing their association to some kind of satisfying termination. There was no need to, there was nothing to say, no conversation that either man had not yet thought of.

The game was over and Moriarty had won, won in the only way that mattered to him.

The loud beeping of the unstoppable countdown echoed around the room.

The distant sounds of gunfire from the castle above muffled eerily by the underground vault.

And James Moriarty died.


	20. The One Which Matters

Sherlock sprinted through his mind palace, the information streaming through him like an electrical current.

Broken computer panel…no way to stop launch…no time to get Mycroft's agents…if launched-could they be shot out of the sky?-no too risky…no time to disable the missiles themselves…cannot shut off launch process….conclusion…not good.

The computer panel was dead, utterly ruined. Sherlock looked at the 5 screens, all blank except the huge, rapidly declining numbers on the far right. Three and a half minutes.

It was at that moment he noticed a twisted handle protruding from the underside of the oversized computer panel. He read the tiny wording beneath it.

_'Manuel base clamp'_

And there it was. There was only one eventuality now, perhaps there always had been.

The missiles would be gearing themselves up for release, waiting for the countdown at which time the pre-launch processes would end and they would be thrust from the castle and into the sky on their deadly journey. They would move fast, so fast they would arrive at their destination in minutes, most people would never even see them. There would be a faint whirring in the air, the unmovable sense that something wasn't quite right and then the world would explode in a haze of fire.

Unless the base of the missiles, the launch pads upon which they rested locked shut, clamping them sternly in place.

The missiles would still try and launch, but they would tear themselves apart on their bases, the fire filling the holding chamber and then they would explode.

But they would never see the light of day; they would never reach their targets.

The handle on the computer board had been broken, no longer locking in place, but the mechanism still worked.

No way to tie it down, to time to escape even if he did.

Sherlock brought his hand up and grasped the handle tightly, pulling it into place, holding it down in the locked position.

It was a strange thing to have ones fate in the palm of ones hand, to know such a thing brought certain death and yet to be calmed by the feeling.

Sherlock had always thought there was a right time to die, a right place and without knowing, without planning he had stumbled upon it.

It is a strange thing to live isn't it? What is it that keeps us going, that pushes us onward and forward? From the daily tedium of a job, housework and sleep, how do we derive from that a purpose, a sense of being that gives us the courage to face another day. They say that life is short, and in many senses of the word it is, our time but a minuscule, insignificant blip on the fabric of time. But it is also the longest thing we will ever do.

Like an endurance race, it is both extensive and exhausting, you can push forward, rushing blindly for the end with reckless speed, determined to win. But that's not what the race is about, there's more to it than just finishing, you might stop to help a fellow participant, perhaps walk for a while, enjoy the view, and take a long, deep, breath. At some point along the way you will hit the wall and be certain that you can no longer continue, that it is too difficult, and some people won't make it past here, for some the finish line is a distant dream never coming to fruition.

But there is also sense of achievement in such a race, accomplishment, and it changes you, it inspires you. Thats what its about, thats what life is about.

Death is easy, living is the hard part, and we do it, day after day, that has to count for something. We endure, that's what we all do isn't it, endure? We all have a faith of sorts, perhaps in a God, or perhaps simply in a bigger purpose. We hope for things we cannot see, we believe there are lessons in loss, power in love and that even in the darkest passages of our time there is a true and tangible reason for why we are here.

And perhaps there is, we may never recognize it, we may never find it at all, or maybe it has already appeared before us and we are simply not ready to see it, but it is there, it was always there.

And maybe this was Sherlock's.

Gripping the handle tightly in one hand he pulled the phone he had taken from Labcoat earlier in the day and laid it on the ruined panel. He slowly dialled the number; perhaps he should leave it, throw the phone on the ground and follow his fate alone.

But he couldn't do it without him. It was as though a great fire had burned within him and all the years of his life no one had noticed, no one had stopped to look- except for John. He needed him, it was as simple as that.

Loneliness brought with it a kind of helplessness, like everything else in the world has been ripped away and you are left alone in space, floating without gravity, with no way to change your path, no way of knowing where you will end up. But John was gravity, John was the anchor which had saved him, given him hope when his days had been dark, found him when he was lost, when he had strayed so far from the path he didn't even know where to start looking.

It was always John.

He glanced at the swiftly falling numbers on the countdown- 3 minutes left- then he pressed talk and the phone began to ring.

* * *

John sat in the back of a black van, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a flurry of activity around him. He knew the members of OASIS at the castle meeting had been captured and arrested. The gun fight between the agents and Rykov's mercenaries had reaped many fatalities but the agents had the upper hand, they would win.

Mycroft had OASIS's plans and at that very moment his team in London and indeed from the van next to John were beginning the task of pulling apart the organisation's network all across Europe, governments were warned, profiles of undercover members exposed, bomb locations known.

Rykov had escaped but they were following him, he wouldn't get far.

Mycrofts men were also trying to get into the missile control room but the keypad had been smashed. It was going to take time.

But none of that really mattered to John, he was watching the stream of vehicles, the people coming and going, waiting for him to emerge over the hill, coat billowing, eyes bright. Waiting for Sherlock.

But then it happened, there is a minute, an instant - you will remember it forever - when you know instinctively that something is wrong. The feeling washed over John in a cold wave.

There was the loud ringing of a phone outside the van and an agent John couldn't see answered it.

"Hello?" a confused voice said, there was a pause and then the agent appeared at the door of the van, his brows raised "It's for you" he said thrusting the phone into John's hands.


	21. In Fire and Death

Despite the thick, steel lined walls of the missile's underground vault, when they exploded it was like a nuclear blowout.

There was a hideous sound as the missiles combusted, of metal grinding against metal as they tore themselves apart.

The men still systematically searching the lower castle levels for hiding OASIS members were killed instantly, thrown off their feet and blown apart in the air.

The others in the castle, a few members of OASIS yet to be captured, the last of Rykov's mercenaries and the last agents clearing the castle room by room all froze for a moment.

Some, with horror on their faces, realised what was happening and dived for cover, running to the nearest exit. Others stood on the spot, guns silent as they looked around, searching for the source of the noise. But there was no time to do much else than glance around in confusion or fear for seconds later another explosion ripped through the castle and suddenly the air filled with shrapnel and stone, the spinning remains of the missiles and dislodged rock plummeting through the castle, tearing it apart.

Like shards of glass, the hurricane of metal sliced people to pieces where they stood while others were crushed as tons of stone detached from the roof and walls with great thundering crashes. Many tried to run, but none of them made it. The disintegrating inside of the castle had turned into a churning red and black hell. A trailing cable lashed through the air, gas pipes wrenched themselves free and went out in roaring explosions, spinning great flaming catapults down the hallways. One struck a man face on and he disappeared with a hideous scream heard by no one.

Those outside turned to look, injured agents, handcuffed or bound OASIS members, Mycroft and his team waiting on the ridge and John, John with the cellphone still pressed hard against his ear.

They watched as the castle below apart, the walls thrown out from within like a balloon too full of air. The entire hill seemed to come apart, great chunks of rock and dirt thrown into the air to rain down upon them.

The cool afternoon was suddenly thick with dirt, like ash during a volcanic eruption. There was a pause as the shockwave expanding from the epicentre, throwing those near the castle off their feet.

And there was a moment, a moment in which one could do nothing but stare as the gutted hill, the unrecognisable remains of the structure which had once sat proudly upon it, crumbled apart. Much of it was swallowed by the cold, dark lake, the rest slid and rolled onto the empty grassy plains behind. An earthquake like tremor shook the entire valley.

Dust and dirt rose in a great plume from the site of the destruction while the lake bubbled and seethed as smaller explosions forced their way up through the deep water.

The voice on the end of John's phone was replaced with static.

And then it was over


	22. When Darkness Comes

If you have ever lost someone close to you, then you understand; you don't need any explanation. But if you haven't, then the truth is there are no words. There is nothing anyone can say which even begins to scrape the surface, that can express how it feels to have someone you love taken from your life forever.

_"Hello?"_

_"John, its me"_

_"Sherlock! Jesus Christ we were worried, where are you? Rykov's escaped. Mycroft's men are trying to get into the control room but the keypad's smashed, it might take them a while. He says they've got almost everyone who was at the OASIS meeting, he can stop them SHerlock, the other bombs, even if the missiles get launched, we did it Sherlock!"_

_"Not quite"_

_"What're you talking about?"_

_"It was him John, Moriarty"_

_"What! Jesus Sherlock, what happened, are you alright?"_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Sherlock where are you?"_

Grief is like drowning, sinking in an ocean with no bottom. You think it can't get worse; that surely at some point you'll reach the rocky bottom and the grief will level off. But it never happens.

You think you wont live through it, and some don't.

_"What the bloody hell does that mean Sherlock? If you think for one minute you're going to stop the missiles like that…if you think I'll let you stay down there and... and"_

_"Its too late John, stay where you are, don't come any closer to the castle, there's only two minutes left. You should tell Mycroft, get him to contact any of his men left down here, tell them to run"_

_"We can send someone Sherlock, we'll find another way, we can figure this out"_

_"In two minutes? I don't think so John, not this time"_

_"John?"_

_"Yeah"_

_"I'm sorry"_

_"Nope"_

To live with someone, to love them and then to lose them, perhaps that is the greatest cruelty the world has to offer.

Not that John lost him all at once, you never do. It happens piece by piece. At first there is shock, tears and anger, but this is just how it starts, this is just the beginning because it isn't real yet. There was the funeral to be planned, there was his family and the surprising number of people who called themselves his friend. There was always someone around, busy, bustling, planning, preparing, reminiscing.

But in the midst of grief the world seems different. You think you're dealing with it, you remind yourself this is just life, everyone dies, everyone loses someone in fact at this very moment thousands of people out there are going through the exact same thing, and you tell yourself if they can do it, so can you.

But the unspoken truth is that no one is coping, how do you? Where is the guidebook which teaches you how not to feel?

And all the while there is the inescapable feeling that something is not quite right. It was as though John was seeing the world through a lenses, a spectator not a participant, separated by something he couldn't explain. The funeral was the worst, it took on a dream like quality, he was certain it wasn't real, it couldn't be. Even the sound wasn't right, it was as if someone had turned down the volume, the words, the sounds, all muffled.

He sat in the corner, the smell of flowers, the sound of the outside downpour, he watched the rain through the stain glass window, people spoke, music played and then a deep silence reverberated as he stumbled to his feet. The wooden podium an eternity away, but it mattered not as he could not speak. He wanted to say something with meaning, something that would make a difference, that would somehow do justice to the greatest and wisest man he had ever known.

But what words do you use when the chance for goodbye has long passed? Happy memories were shared by others, but it was as if all sentiment had fallen far past John's grasp and he was lost in the chasm of despair that divided them, him and Sherlock.

Slowly the church began to empty, he felt the soft hands of peoples hugs, the low sound of their hushed words and then it was just the five of them. The landlady, the lab girl with the long brown hair, the red eyed inspector and finally the man sitting in the front row, dressed in a crumpled three piece suit, an umbrella carelessly discarded beside him.

This man simply stared at the ground, hands clasped firmly on his knees. His once brilliant eyes rose tiredly to Johns and he saw in them a depth of agony that would match even his own; grief beyond tears. He seemed lost, floundering with no inkling of the future, nowhere to go but to sit there until he was swallowed by his pain. This unbearable helplessness was something John understood well, he felt it himself, and he realised there was nothing he could say to amend this, nothing that would make the truth fade, so why did people bother? Why did people offer reassuring words, the promise that everything would be OK?

Because the simple truth is, make believe games are much easier than the truth.

Then bit by bit Sherlock disappeared from his world, the experiments were cleaned up, his mail stopped coming, the scent on his dressing gown faded and the violin grew dusty. The visitors, the well wishers were fewer and far between until finally they stop coming all together.

That's just how it works, while you remain still, stuck in the endless abyss of grief and loneliness, the world carries on, the clock keeps ticking.

And then when he was finally alone, when it was finally quiet, it truly hit him, overwhelmed him a way he could not have possibly imagined. A line is crossed and you end up in a place none of us really know until we get there. The walls close in around you, the loneliness trapping you inside. john didn't know how to get out, how to fix it, but it didn't matter. In fact nothing did, because the pain comes soon after.

The pain.

You're never free from it, not after what its done to you. That day at the castle had taken from John the one thing that had truly mattered to him.

_"John there's something I want to say, I've always meant to say it but I…er…I never got the chance. Seeing as this is the last time we'll speak, I…ah…I guess now is my last chance"_

_"…."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"John I- I don't really know how to…I never thought this would happen…I mean before I met you I hadn't ever… but then you came along and…and things changed"_

_"Sherlock… I…why didn't you say something"_

_"I thought you knew"_

_"Of course not! If I had known you...you felt the same, if I had thought for even a second my feelings were reciprocated…"_

_"Reciprocated? You mean...?"_

_"Of course you brilliant idiot, of course. I've always...its always been you"_

There is a point, a depth of grief which exceeds the capacity of a human being to express, and so it rages within, tearing you apart piece by piece.

They had found each other when they were both lost, alone and drifting in the world. They had found their way home together, they had found their way back. Such a journey was never easy, it was not a path that one could tread alone, there were demons to fight, old resentments and regrets which threatened the very foundations of their lives. But they didn't have to face it alone, they had done it side by side, as brothers, as friends, as partners, as two pieces of a whole.

But now there was only one.

And there was no comfort in all the world that would rescue John from that.

There was no switch to flick, no door out, no release from the cold grip of grief.

As hard as you wish, as much as you plead there is no turning back, there is no returning to how things used to be, and perhaps that was the worst part for John, the thought of him without Sherlock and Sherlock without him. There was the guilt; of walking where his feet may never touch, in the air he may never breathe, the sounds he would never hear. The guilt of the life that should have been his, guilt that he was here and Sherlock was gone, for the dead have no one but us.

_"Mycroft...would you tell him...tell him that I..."_

_"I will"_

_"I should go, there's only 30 seconds left"_

_"NO, no please Sherlock, stay on the phone, I need to hear your voice. I wish I was there, I wish I was with you"_

_"No, I'm where I'm supposed to be John, this is the only way to end it, You'll be safe, Moriarty is gone, OASIS will fall apart, Mycroft will make sure of it, London, the other cities, they'll be safe now."_

_"I don't care, I don't give a damn about OASIS, or anyone. Please, Sherlock... just...don't."_

_"I can't. I'm sorry John, for everything, truly I am."_

_"I know"_

_"I'm...I'm scared John"_

_"..."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Sherlock!?"_

_ "SHERLOCK!"_

_"No, no, it's not real, this isn't happening...please…don't, I can't...please….Sherlock."_

_"...Don't leave me... not again"_

But despite every part of yourself screaming otherwise, despite everything, you still endure. Its simply what people do, what we've always done. We endure.

Time struggles on and so must we. There is no choice, there is no one waiting for us, no one to pick us up and carry us. We must drag ourselves to our feet despite every part of us which screams at us to lie there and let the darkness swallow us.

And so John began to tread the long path back to life, its a difficult road, to John it was familiar, except this time he faced it alone. Eventually he got used to surviving, he had done it before, he would do it again, and before long it becomes like a second nature.

And when he least expected, he looked around and realised he had made his way back. The sun on his face felt warm again, the greyness of the world was slowly replaced by colour and the volume on life was turned back up.

That's how John would survive. Because he would survive and one day, many, many years later he and Sherlock would meet again.

John would die, comfortable in his bed, surrounded by his children and his grandchildren.

Then the consulting detective, the greatest man he had ever met, the man who had saved him in every way a person could, in every way which mattered, would appear.

The dark curls, the bright eyes, his face untouched by time. He would be waiting for John, he had waited for forty-five years, but he would have waited forever. A warm smile on his face, his thin hands outstretched.

And they would greet each other like old friends.

The End

* * *

**I just want to say thank you for reading, I write quite a lot but I've never put anything on a site like this before and you have all been so, so lovely. As I said before, I didn't actually think anyone would read this and so your very kind reviews have made this fantastic.**

**Thanks especially to GirlAtTheRockShow182- you're awesome!**

**Elena xx**


End file.
